


The Weeds Grow Up

by FeoplePeel



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Delacour Lineage, F/F, Graves Lineage, Investigations, Love Letters, M/M, Magical Studies, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Rescue Missions, Sibling Bonding, Slow Burn, Squibs, Veela
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-07 05:05:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8784250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeoplePeel/pseuds/FeoplePeel
Summary: Missus Margaret Graves, we regret to inform you of the death of your brother, Mister Perciv
  
  
  
    Clippy, I know it’s been a long time but please come home. We need you here, more than ever. I miss
  
  
  Margaret,
  
  I have your brother’s wand and the personal effects of his office. Come pick them up at your leisure.
  
  Seraphina Picquery,
  
  Madam President, MACUSA
  
  P.S.-I’m terribly sorry, Maggie.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story begins with the supposed death of Margaret’s brother Percival Graves, and her absolute refusal to believe it. It continues with an investigation, a series of love letters, an unlikely team up, backdoor dealings, proper use of magical history, misuse of magic, and hopefully a rescue. Credence and Percival, outside of Grindelwald’s influence, are viewed through the eyes of Percy’s estranged sister and the lens of her own relationship with her wife, Élodie, and their daughter, Apolline.
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely [kazzashepard](http://goddamnrey.tumblr.com/)!

"This is Credence?"

Newt nodded, his eyes on the swathe of inky blackness before them.

"Hello. My name is Margaret Graves. Do you know who I am?"

The darkness swirled larger before her, and Newt took a step forward, heel to toe.

"I'm sorry, you're not likely to get much out of him--"

"No." The words were a whispered interruption, but with them, a man appeared from the smoke. "I don’t know you."

“Well, I’ve heard an awful lot about you.” She pulled two items from her bag. “I have a gift from your...sibling, Modesty.”

Credence stared at her hands and, slowly, became something more solid. Newt, awkward limbs and averted glances before, began to look him over with a focus more befitting of a doctor's station. Margaret ignored him and the almost pained look in Credence’s eyes.

“I was hoping you could answer some questions about mine.”

* * *

_Two Weeks Earlier_

“And his wand.”

Margaret turned over the wand in her hand, examining the dark wood. Seraphina’s fingers lingered over her own.

“Percival was a fine man.” Margaret raised her eyes, but Seraphina was speaking to her office, face upturned and eyes scanning a row of awards to their right. Her brother must have helped the President win some of those. “The Graves name carried a lot of weight around here.”

"Was that before or after a murderous psychopath pretended to have his face?"

Seraphina grinned and tilted her head, scrutinizing. Margaret could read the unhappiness in the lines around her eyes. "Before, obviously. And after, too."

Margaret pulled her hand away and picked up her abandoned coffee from the paper between them, making sure the headline was evident. Another scathing review of the Magical Congress. Yes, they had Grindelwald in custody, it read, but for how long?

"I assume you have your own questions, to request a private audience." Americans were blunt. Margaret had been away for four years now; she'd almost forgotten how comfortable that was.

"I requested an audience with Gellert Grindelwald, not the inattentive President who let an _English_ criminal catch him."

This wasn't an accusation she'd picked up from the papers on her trip over, but judging by the way the other woman bristled, it _was_ one she had heard before now.

"Newt Scamander is a fine citizen who cares deeply about the environment. We found his _assistance_ invaluable, and we were happy to have him as a Goodwill Ambassador from England’s Ministry."

"Bullshit."

Seraphina sighed. "What do you _want_ , Maggie?"

Sera hadn't exactly been a friend at school--different houses, different groups--but they had formed the Chess Club together and almost made it to Nationals. She knew her tactics; that there was no wearing her down, and that sympathy wouldn't work. To fight her, you had to _be_ like her.

"The family vaults. With Father gone and now Percy...well.” She waved a hand through the air. “I need proof of death to get to any piece of it. The word of a dark wizard, I’m afraid, won’t suffice."

Seraphina balked only for a moment, not one to be caught off guard for long. "I thought you would be...more sentimental."

Margaret cast a warming charm on her coffee. She used Percival’s wand. Seraphina looked distinctly uncomfortable before her expression closed completely.

"I'll see what I can do. But family wards are tricky about things like this. We may need a body, which may require an investigation, and I'm sorry, we don't have time for something like that at the moment, Missus Graves."

"You've already caught the bad guy, Sera.”

“Don’t pretend to be a simpleton.” Seraphina gathered the papers on the desk into a ball and threw them into a bin beside her. Margaret wondered if it was more satisfying, hearing the crush of the long dead wood under her hands, next to a quickly cast _Incendio_. “Grindelwald has an _army_ of followers. They’re not going to be quiet just because we’ve caught their ringleader. We’ve got a big job ahead of us. And unless you’re coming back to work for us, that’s all I’m at liberty to discuss.”

“I heard there’s a position for Head of Security open,” Margaret joked. Seraphina didn’t smile.

"Have you considered something else?" Margaret stopped when she reached the door, scratching her finger along the edge of the wood frame. "That he's alive? The wards won't open because he's still _alive_?"

"No, I hadn't." Seraphina let out a long breath. "And I won't. Don't let yourself hope like that."

After a moment, Margaret nodded. “Madam President.”

“Clippy!" She turned at the sound of Sera's voice when she had made it halfway down the hall. "Get yourself a permit for that wand!”

* * *

Queenie Goldstein was gorgeous, all legs and blue eyes Margaret could drown in.

“Oh, you’re so sweet.”

She was also, Margaret realised as she signed her last form with a blush, a Legilimens.

“It’s fine.” Queenie, the _stranger_ , reached across to pat her hand. “My eyes are one of my favorite features.”

Margaret smiled back weakly. It wasn’t until she was done, adjusting her scarf and ignoring the elegant way Queenie neatly stacked the papers with a wave of her wand, that she managed to speak.

“Thank you.” She tucked Percival’s wand alongside her own. “This means a lot to me.”

“Because...of your brother.” Queenie clasped her palms together in front of her stomach. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but…”

Margaret leaned forward.

* * *

Kowalski’s bakery was filled with delicious goodies, and Margaret was interested in none of them as Tina slid a file across the table to her.

Goldstein. She _knew_ the name sounded familiar. Tina had been 21, only joining up, when Margaret left. They called her Teeny during training.

 _Look at her now,_ she thought. _Getting demoted and still catching the bad guys. Good on you, Goldstein._

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more than what’s in these files,” Tina said. “Not even I have clearance to Grindelwald.”

“What about Scamander?”

“What about him?”

“He fought him, yes? Spoke to him?”

“Briefly.” Tina grabbed her pointer finger with her left hand tightly. Some sort of calming technique. “No more than I would have when he was pretending to be Graves. He was really...none of us could tell, Clip.”

"Scamander's back in Europe?" Tina nodded, and Margaret rolled her eyes. "I feel as if I've made a trip for nothing."

"Not for nothing!" Queenie grinned, setting down a plate in front of her. "These pastries are to die for!"

* * *

The next ship to France left in three days. After that it was another boat ride, the feeling of time lost, her brother slowly dying.

Perhaps she'd get his money after all.

She read the (heavily edited) reports in Seraphina’s sweeping hand and spent the first two days visiting everywhere they mentioned. Looking for...anything. The Second Salemers church now stood as an apartment for lease. She threw the last of her coins into the large black hat of a dirty girl sitting on the steps and wondered if she was one of those mentioned in the report. So much fell through the cracks when it came to the No-Majs, she knew. But they were children. Perhaps they would remember less.

Finally, she came here, to her brother's apartment. It had been wiped clean by the MACUSA, but all old magic families learned to have their secret spots.

She pressed her family ring into the bedpost and stood back as it flipped and shrank to reveal a set of stairs. She descended down, into the purple glow cast upon the bricks, thinking not for the first time how stupid their government was.

“They should have destroyed this entire building the second they learned Grindelwald stepped foot inside it…” She lifted her wand. “ _Specialis Revelio_.”

But then she wouldn’t be able to see what her brother, and the man who had feigned his appearance, had wanted to keep most hidden.

Runes, for there was no other word for the bones and trinkets that laid about in triangular patterns she did not recognize and therefore did not touch. A map was still open and marked on the desk. She didn't envy Tina's position, explaining whatever the map revealed to the President, but she'd send it along anyway.

The letters looked safe. And there were many. Some short and near illegible; a code, maybe? Others, unmistakably, refrains of love. There was nothing illicit about them, from the innocent,  ‘ _Today I saw a cloud that reminded me of--’_ and ‘ _Thank you for the peppermints, my sister loved them--’_ to the strange poetic nonsense she'd never been able to grasp.

And yet...love letters to her brother! She wanted to laugh, remembering him at school, three years her senior and, for lack of a better word, _gravely_ focused on anything but love.

Margaret wondered if he ever wrote back.

She focused on the details, letting her eyes stray away from the words of those particular letters, feeling...too intrusive. The others, those in code, were fewer, though in the same hand and all on the back of Second Salem pamphlets. Someone inexperienced in the spy game, then.

“You must be Credence…,” she pulled the file Tina had given her and placed it beside the letters, rustling through until her eyes landed on the name, “Barebone.”

She spent a few hours trying to work it out, rubbing her eyes as the violet lights around her grew with the lateness of the hour. She wasn’t overly concerned at not breaking a code likely designed by _Gellert Grindelwald_ himself (she would have been hard pressed to break one of her brother’s, come to think on it) and so packed them away with the map and a drawing of the runes.

After a moment of quiet contemplation, her fingertips resting on the edge of the desk, she separated the more personal effects, wrapping the letters back in the ribbon that held them.

As she knotted it a final time, she paused, drawn up short by what she saw.

It was her mother’s necklace, the red ribbon _almost_ unrecognizable with age and without its brooch, which Margaret carried on her own person.

However her brother had felt, he had taken great care with these.

Only the two of them would know its significance...these letters _must_ have been written in part to her brother, _her brother_ , not that monster.

She had not thought overmuch about her brother’s life. By all accounts he hadn’t had much of one. Even if Percival _hadn’t_ written back...

How would he feel, learning Grindelwald had led Credence Barebone to the slaughter with his face?

Margaret covered her mouth, taken back at the emotion that draped over her shoulders like a blanket. She’d not _felt_ for Percival in some time.

She set the letters aside, looking around for anything to distance herself. On the only other shelf, a corner desk, sat a many-notched wand. She stared at it for a long time feeling a sense of unease before gathering the letters to her chest, fingering the delicate ribbon and taking the stairs two at a time.

Her boat was set to leave in four hours. She didn’t know why she found her way back to the Second Salem house. Tina had swept this particular scene herself. Wiped out entirely before the MACUSA rebuilt it. The same little girl was outside, and when her eyes caught Margaret’s, she offered up a piece of her pastry in sticky fingers.

“No, thank you,” Margaret said offhandedly. The girl dropped her hand but continued to stare. “I don't have any more money. I gave you my last. You might try two streets over. They're very loose with their change.” She didn't mention it was because they were wizards too and had little need of it.

“I can get you inside.” The girl stood, stowing the rest of her snack into a pocket and wiping her fingers off on her dress.

“I'm not really interested in buying. Just heard that the place has a history.”

“Are you a witch?”

“Silly,” Margaret said gently, for she had learned not to laugh in the face of very serious children, “there's no such thing.”

“Are too. My brother’s one.”

Margaret opened her watch. Twenty minutes walk to the docks...that gave her at least three hours.

“All right, why don't you show me around…?”

“Modesty.” The girl dipped into a small curtsy.

“Modesty.”

* * *

_Two Hours Ago_

“Mister Scamander?”

Newton Scamander was up to his elbows in dragon dung on the French countryside when Margaret finally caught up with his rather wavy trek across Europe.

It wasn’t the prettiest portrait.

"Newt Scamander...who arrested Gellert Grindelwald?"

"I did do that, yes." His smile was fleeting, more interested in sifting through shit than whatever Margaret had to say.

"I'm Margaret Graves. I'm looking for my brother.”

“Oh dear.” He glanced at her then back to his...project, looking more than a little disappointed. “I’ll pop the kettle on, shall I?”

Then he pulled his arms, dung-covered gloves and all, out of the shitheap, and Margaret threw up on his shoes.

* * *

“I did get a fire-call from Tina, but I move about so much…”

“You're not a terribly difficult man to find, Mister Scamander,” she said a little more tartly than may have been advised. “These are from Jacob.”

Newt accepted the letter and box of candies with undisguised delight. “Tina said you wanted to speak to me about Grindelwald's arrest?”

“I did.” She sipped at her tea slowly. “Then I ran into a little girl named Modesty.”

* * *

_Now_

“Not a terribly smart move visiting a ten year old before you left.” Margaret watched Credence Barebone, in the...flesh, examine a stuffed brown bear and his own letter, more of the page crowded with drawings than actual words.

“Where is she?”

“Bronsted Orphanage. It's not awful, but she goes to the old Salem building to see if you'll turn up. Met me instead.”

A thick silence fell, long enough for Newt to conjure chairs for the three of them. Credence watched the flick of Newt’s wand with open wonder but didn't take his own seat, merely stroking a hand along its back as though a touch too quick or rough and it might disappear under his hand.

“Are you one of them?”

“I'm sorry you'll have to clarify. I'm not sure which _one_ you mean. A wizard, an American, a--”

“The MACUSA,” Newt interrupted her, whether to keep Credence from disappearing into an agitated cloud again or to speed things along, she wasn't sure. “When we left they were...very happy to see him go to say the least.” To Credence, he said, “Tina trusts her. I think.”

“I assure you I’m not with Congress. And as far as they're aware you're still dead.”

“The MACUSA’s inattentiveness works, once again, in our favor.” Newt grinned across the table at Credence who seemed, to his credit, to be _trying_ to grin back. It just looked to fit very oddly on his face. Perhaps it'd grow on him...

“You'll be much safer across the pond. I assume London's the plan?” Newt nodded. “That's good. The Ministry has a fair few protections set in place with its Beings Division.”

Newt gave her a curious look, and she took it as a sign to change the topic, quickly. No need to encourage him to question down that particular road. “Mister Barebone, I have evidence that suggests you may have been the last person to speak to my brother, my _actual_ brother, before Grindelwald arrived stateside--”

Credence gripped the back of his chair, and Margaret found herself doing the same to the table as it shook, black peals of smoke reaching across it and under like something from a child's storybook. Like the tendrils of an octopus, her mind supplied. They retreated at the sounds of muted encouragement to her left, from Newt. She couldn't make out what he was saying--she was scared to stillness. For children's stories were simple when she was young, but looking back upon them now, she found herself very frightened.

“Don’t say that name,” Newt cautioned too late.

“I understand, I think,” though she knew her tone was more frustrated than understanding and it showed by the look on Newt’s face. “I served, mostly in France, briefly in Bulgaria.”

“Bulgaria?”

“It's a long story, Mister Scamander.” She relaxed into her chair, more at ease with the dissolution of the darkness. “One I'm sure you'd love to ignore someday. I simply mean, in some small ways,” and for this she looked at Credence who was no better at holding her gaze than Newt, “I understand.”

“He came to our church. Mister...Graves did.”

He seemed to have trouble with that name too, though the chair stayed still beneath his hand this time. “He and Miss Goldstein. They checked on the children when Ma was away.”

“And then?” Margaret folded her hands.

“Apparently there was an incident,” Newt said when Credence didn't speak.

“Tina's demotion.” She tapped her thumbs together. “Do you think that's when--”

Credence spoke over her in a rush. “I try _not_ to think about it.”

She pressed her lips together, turning to Newt instead. “I found these,” she laid out the fluxweed and bicorn horn for Newt to see, “in his room. It is my firm belief that the man impersonating my brother did so under the influence of Polyjuice Potion, Mister Scamander. And with the length of time between his last reported sighting in Europe and the number of ingredients I found in his stores...what?” She had let her voice get louder, more excited as she continued, but Newt was looking, helplessly, between Credence and she. Margaret was insanely glad he wasn't the type to _politely cough_ at her, but the expression he wore was almost as bad.

“The man who did this is...cruel. A powerful, dark wizard.”

“I did not cross an ocean _twice_ to be told that the wizard who's killed thousands and potentially the last male heir of my family is _not very nice_.” She lowered her voice, taking a deep breath through her nose. “How arrogant is he, _that's_ what I want to know.”

“Very.” Credence spoke quietly, eyebrows raising a fraction.

Her chin dipped in a small nod of thanks.

“Did you bring this to the President?” Newt asked, examining the horn held between his hands, lips turned downward.

“Her notes include a list of suspected ways in which the culprit invaded and overtook their security measures. Polyjuice is highest among them. She doesn't disavow it; she simply doesn't believe he could still be alive.” She breathed deeply, steadying herself. “I left the MACUSA once. Even if this hadn't happened, I don't know who I can trust.”

Newt looked at her for a long moment, and she realised it was the first time she had _seen_ his eyes. They were beautiful and soft beneath the sweep of his hair.

Then a harsh cry came from their right, and he was up like a shot and further into the wilds of the suitcase. It occurred to Margaret that this left her with Credence, alone.

This could go very well for her or very, _very_ poorly.

Margaret supposed, or perhaps liked to believe, she was kind in the way that most people do. But...she was not Newt. The war left a certain hardness about her, as had her father and brother, that time and true love had not completely sanded away.

She could not make gentle noises. She did not have soft eyes.

Credence slowly took the seat across from her. Margaret moved at his pace, storing away the ingredients and pulling out the file marked _Grindelwald, Gellert._ She kept it carefully angled away as she pulled out the pages she was looking for.

“Was Modesty…?” Credence trailed off. Margaret paused, papers held to her chest. “Is she really okay?

“I think so. She asked me if I was a witch,” she said and, yes, that twitch of lips that hinted at a smile suited Credence more the second time around.

“I found codes in my brother’s personal apartment as well, Mister Barebone.” She laid the pages in front of him. “Can you tell me what these mean?”

His hand shook minutely where he touched the page. Before she could blink, those smoky tendrils, half-forgotten now, reached not below this time, but up, up and around her shoulders and face in a cold choke of terror. She fought the pound of blood in her neck and stayed very still.

“These started three months ago.” She heard a whisper through the darkness, and slowly her vision cleared. Credence stared at her, breathing harshly through his nose. “Does that mean something?”

“The timeline is right.”

“I...it was complicated. Some of them I remember, but some were based on newspapers that week. It would take a while to decode everything. A _long_ while.”

It sounded like rejection, Margaret noticed. The sort of note that Newt’s voice carried only moments before. Margaret held his gaze, Seraphina’s words ringing in her head.

 _Don't let yourself hope like that,_ she’d said, as though it were something Margaret had any control over. She’d been trying to excise that useless emotion since she moved to France.

Her mind fell to a line from one of the letters she should not have read on her journey.

_Hope should not feel such a wicked thing._

She'd been trying to cut out hope, at least with regards to the Graves family, for years. She recognized a fellow in the man across from her.

“He kept your other letters, too.” She clasped her hands if only that she would not reach across the small table and clasp his. “I _know_ you cared for my brother. My _real_ brother, even if it was only for a little while. Please, _please_ if there's even a chance…”

She sat back in her seat. The smothering quiet that existed between them was a human quiet, broken by shallow breaths. Credence stood and walked in the direction Newt had gone, leaving the papers behind.

* * *

_Hope should not feel such a wicked thing. Romans states, ‘But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it.’ It may be blasphemy to compare such meetings with the eternal salvation of Our Lord and Saviour, but what better descriptor? The time I wish: eternal. Your presence there: salvation.  
_ _C.B._

“It would be easier--”

“ _Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”_ Margaret sat bolt upright, setting her stack of papers aside with uncalled for violence at the sound of Credence’s voice.

Newt had given her his bed, opting to sleep with the sick, screeching creature she hadn't gotten a look at (though judging by his clothes, it was some rainforest dwelling beast). Honestly she wasn't sure if Credence would _ever_ come out of whatever dark corner he had slunk off to when she trudged up to bed, but there he was, standing in the doorway looking a little alarmed.

“Gosh, you're quiet.”

“Sorry, I--”

“No, it's all right.” She swung her legs out of the bed to rest on the wood floor. “Nothing wounded but my pride. You were saying something?”

“Yes...it would be easier if I went with you.”

“...now I'm sorry, I'm not sure what you mean.”

“The decoding. I could finish it for you if you take me with you.”

“You’ve changed your mind about the codes?” She rubbed her eyelids with the tips of her steepled hands. “Are you saying you want to go back to New York?”

“No. Mister Scamander is wonderful, and I want to go to London, to...to learn magic.”

She ignored the way his voice shook as he spoke. He seemed to have been working up to this, and the last thing she wanted was to interrupt.

“I don't want to go, but...this is the longest I've stayed human-shaped in a while. And...I left Modesty in an orphanage.”

He said the last with more emotion than she had yet heard in his voice.

“That's weighing on you a bit?”

He nodded, a hand placed lightly to the side of his neck. He opened his mouth twice before he spoke. “Your brother and I weren't…”

Margaret raised her eyebrow and waited.

“He was very Christian, that's all.”

Christian...wasn't the last word she would have used to describe Percival, but it was up there.

“I'm very aware of my brother's proclivities.” You don't go to school with someone without stumbling on a few true rumors. “In fact, there is probably very little you can say that will shock me when it comes to Percival.”

“You two...weren't speaking. For years, he said.”

“I don't know _what all_ my brother told you--”

“Only that he wished--”

“But you can rest easy knowing _that_ isn't why we weren't speaking.”

Credence dipped his head slowly. “Why then?”

She stared at him. “ _My_ proclivities.” His mouth rounded into an ‘o’ of understanding, and she wanted to scream because he didn't understand at all. “Daddy willed all of my shares in the estate over to Percy, and Big Brother didn't say a word against him.”

“...when he met me, he said he found the way I cared for my sisters admirable.” Credence leaned forward on the toes of his shoes. “Maybe he wished he'd taken better care of you.”

“Maybe is a fine thing, Mister Barebone.” She smiled. “Go get some sleep. We've a busy run ahead of us.”

* * *

Newt was not happy.

“I would advise against,” he seemed to gather himself back into that almost physician-like aspect of himself before speaking again. “Credence is still not fully in control of his Obscurus. It could very well _kill_ him to travel without proper care.”

She stared out at the vast expanse within his suitcase. It _was_ a marvel. “You rehabilitate these animals?”

He blinked, seemingly thrown. “When I am able.”

“ _He's_ not an animal.”

“No, he’s not. But in my experience, frightened humans are equally dangerous.” Newt deflated. “He made the choice to come with me, to London. I won’t stop him if he chooses to go back with you, but--”

“New York is a big city,” Margaret said, guessing at his concern, “and I can handle Seraphina.”

Newt caught her eye again, and she had the feeling she was being silently assessed and assigned her own individual danger level on the Newt Scamander Scale of Humans.

“I’ve an older brother myself,” he said, turning away from her at a startling speed.

“What would you do in my place?”

“I highly doubt Theseus will ever need saving.”

“I thought the same of mine. But here I am.”

Newt led her up the stairs to a loft, stretching his long arms out to pull a chest forward. He handed her a roughly bound notebook and continued his rummaging.

“Those won’t be in the first edition of my book,” he said, and she turned her attention to the first page, filled top to bottom with pictures and notes and measurements. All of them in a tiny scrawl and _all_ about the Obscurus. A note at the bottom, writ slightly larger, read:

DO NOT SPEAK THE WORDS. GRINDELWALD. ~~MARY LOU~~. ~~SALEM~~. ~~GRAVES~~.

There were other words she didn't recognize. Names, mostly. The slash of ink looked fresh across her family name. This must have been something Newt and Credence were working on. She wondered briefly if New York would set him back.

“Here we are.” Newt brandished a smaller square of leather. “His passport.”

“Thank you.” She took the item, passing her wand over Newt’s notes and, after a moment, they became legible only to her.

Tonight, before they would board a boat to New York, she would do the same to Credence’s letters.


	2. Chapter 2

_Dearest Élodie,_  
_I had not thought I would write to you. You were so angry when I left, and I don't blame you. However something has happened recently that has given me reason to. No, I have not yet found Percival,_ _and I know that, beneath your concern for me, this was the reason for your upset. I have not chosen him, or my family, above you and ours. They could not offer me anything for that._  
_Still, he is my brother, and I would care to think, should everyone else think me lost to the world, he would find cause to question._  
_I cannot say much about the specifics of my endeavor. Perhaps the war left behind something like a paranoia about the written word. It certainly made me a romantic._  
_New York is the same as it ever was--wretched smells and damp cold. I am headed back there now (so many miles under my feet, Élodie). Should you ever care to write to me, contact Tina Goldstein at the address I have provided, and she will get your letter through somehow._  
_Élodie. I have written your name three times now, and each time I say it aloud, I miss you more. Humans must bore you. Why did you choose me? I am travelling with someone as strange as you now._  
_No. Stranger._  
_I have so many questions._  
_Love forever and always,_  
_Mags_

* * *

They boarded the boat in silence, found their cabin, and by the time she found Credence reading a book Newt had sent with him, in the same spot hours later, she began to wonder if the few words they had exchanged in Newt’s suitcase had been one long hallucination.

She wondered, too, if he’d eaten. She brought up a tray of ham from the service deck in any case.

After he’d finished his meal in slow bites, she spoke, examining the spine of his book.

“I take it you never heard the Tales of Beedle the Bard growing up.”

“Only the Bible, Missus.”

 _Deprived even by No-Maj standards,_ she thought though the information didn't surprise her.

“How do you find them?”

“I quite liked Babbitty Rabbitty,” Credence admitted quietly.

Margaret's great guffaw of laughter was loud in the small room. “I don't blame you! Babbitty Rabbitty, how fitting. I was always a fan of The Fountain of Fair Fortune.”

“I think Modesty will like that one.”

“Hm.” She nodded, not wanting to be the one to tell him what a bad idea it would be to tell Modesty anything at all. “Why Modesty?” she asked instead. “Sorry, she mentioned another.”  
  
“Chastity was-” He cut himself off. “Modesty and I were always closer.”

“Drawn to each other, you would say?”

“Maybe.” He shot her a questioning glance.

She ignored it. “Strange, isn't it? How much she remembers.”

The furrows between Credence’s brow deepened.

“Never mind me. I'm just thinking out loud.” She waved him off. “How many years apart are the two of you?”

“Twelve,” he said. “I'm twenty two. Twenty three this year.”

“Really? Your hair makes you look...younger.”

It was the nicest thing she could think to say about the mop that resided on Credence’s head. The man clearly wasn't used to hair beyond a certain length yet.

He picked a stray lock off of his shoulder. “I got tired of cutting it.”

“Do you want it shorter?”

“Just...a little?”

“This is where magic can be very useful,” she said, sitting carefully on the bed behind him and turned just enough so he could still keep her in his sights. “If you’ll allow me, I'll teach you an amazing hair cutting charm.”

“I don't have a wand yet.” He turned farther away and gathered his hair up, enough for a very short plait, in tacit permission.

She let her wand hand hover in the air before waving it in a slow arc below his fingers. “It's okay to ask for things, you know?”

“I know,” he said as she caught the felled clippings in her free hand. “Mister Scamander told me.”

“Mister Scamander seems…” Margaret couldn't conjure a word that didn't sound vaguely insulting, so she settled on, “Interesting.”

“He's been around more frightening creatures than I knew existed. I’ve seen some of them.” His head turned slightly so his eyes caught hers. “And he's not scared of me at all.”

“The two of you don't cut very intimidating figures.”

“But I'm an Obscurial,” he pointed out, and she wondered if that was a smile at the corner of his lips. “And he arrested Grindelwald.”

She kept moving, with great purpose, at the name, watching for a sign of...anything. “Hm. Looks can be deceiving, I suppose.”

She could feel at once the somber mood that gripped them and regretted her words.

“I'm sure you’ve picked up a bit of wandless magic at your age,” she offered in an obvious attempt to steer the conversation back to normal territory.

“Only the kind that hurts people.”

Normal for her at least. For Credence, it seemed many conversational roads led back to a well of bad memories.

Margaret paused in putting away her wand. “Here,” she said, handing it to him instead. He took it with a tight grip, and she fought a wince.

“What?”

“It’s mine. Pine, nine inches with a Veela hair core, so it can be temperamental with the offensive spells. Give it a twist.”

Credence stared at the stick of wood as though it might bite him. “...what kind of twist?”

“Point it there, at that pot.” She motioned to the plant in the corner. “Start here--may I take your hand? Thank you.” She pressed her fingers against the pulse point on his wrist and led him gently up, then down in an ‘M’ motion. “Break off once you get here."

“There aren’t...words?”

“If you’d like.” She lifted a shoulder. “ _Herbivicus_. Make sure you get the emphasis correct if you’re going to be casting verbally.”

He muttered the word under his breath a few times. “What does it do?”

“It makes plants grow.”

“And if it... _doesn’t_ do that?”

“Well, the room is warded, so if this place explodes, no one will know about it but us and a very confused team of Aurors come two days from now.” Credence’s head whipped around more quickly than she thought he had in him. “Go ahead, left to right, like so.”

“... _Herbivicus,_ ” he said, twisting his wand up and down and flicking it off to the right.

The plant, pot and the stand it rested on, caught, entirely, on fire.

Credence looked at her, absolutely pale in the increasing black smoke that began to surround him.

“Easily remedied.” She waved a hand, and the fire disappeared. The smoke stayed, but it was quickly replaced by smoke from the _real_ fire and not the ethereal black of the Obscurus. Margaret banished it with another wave of her hand.

She bit her lip, pulling out the longer wand she had kept next to her own for the past three weeks.

“Try this one.” She held it out to Credence, who still looked too startled to be downcast about his misuse of magic. To think, the man who had taken out half of New York was frightened of a little wand backfire. “Ebony, fifteen inch, Wampus cat hair core.” He slowly came back to himself to examine the wand, handing Margaret her own in the process. “It’s a Johannes Jonker wand. His parents were No-Majs, but he’s one of our best wandmakers.”

He squeezed his hand around the handle, casting her a doleful look which she immediately combated with what she hoped was an encouraging ‘Go on’ motion.

“ _Herbivicus._ ” He traced the pattern more slowly, arm held back in a controlled motion that reminded her of…

She bit back a sigh. It reminded her of Percival.

That’s what he was doing, wasn’t it? Control the magic rather than subdue it. No wonder her brother’s wand was a good fit. Percy had the best kept composure of anyone she’d known.

Across the room, the plant grew back at least an inch taller.

“Why does this one work?” Credence held the wand above his head and turned it, its pearl handle catching the light.

 _I don’t think he’d appreciate my theory on the subtle laws of wand ownership, and how those apply to lovers._ She laughed through her nose, disguising it as a sneeze.

“Long wands are exceptionally rare,” she said. “And so are you.”

That seemed to catch him off guard, and he smiled.

She rose from the bed and oversaw a silent debate within herself before deciding to tell him. “That particular wand was my brother’s.”

He continued staring at it. “I thought it looked familiar. Once he told me about magic, he didn’t use it much.”

“No, I imagine Grindelwald wouldn’t have much use for a wand. That wand, in any case,” she said, keeping her eyes on Credence as she spoke. When nothing happened at the use of the dark wizard's name, she let out a quiet breath.

“What's Mister Graves like?” he asked, setting the wand aside.

“Percival is...was more serious than kind,” she admitted quietly, turning to her suitcase to search for a set of bedroom clothes. “When we were children, he hated rough housing. When we were at school, he was top of the class, and when he joined up with the MACUSA, he became Head of the MLE in less than two years. Honestly, you may have been right about the Christian bit. He was boring. Very Puritan.”

The more she spoke the more she saw Credence withdraw. It was something in the face, around the eyes. She didn’t hide her sigh, this time.

“He was fair,” she said, sitting on her own bed. “I think there was something in him that wouldn’t let him be anything else, even to his own sister. I think...he loved me, obviously. But he _lived_ and breathed that job.” He was looking at her, openly curious, which was an emotion that showed he was back with her at least. “You knew him before, too. What was your impression?”

“Stylish,” Credence answered automatically, as though he knew she would ask, and this was the least embarrassing thing he could say.

She couldn’t help the laugh the broke from her. “I have to admit he is that. We have an awful lot of money.”

“He had better hair than mine.”

“I didn’t give you his.” She laughed again, conjuring a mirror for him. “How's that?”

He examined the small reflection, running a hand through bangs that rested loose on his forehead. She gathered her clothes in a bundle to her chest and left the room.

* * *

When Margaret returned, Credence was staring again at her brother’s wand.

 _Hope is not such a wicked thing_ , she thought.

“I’ve had only a little time to think about this, but I have to tell you, Mister Barebone,” she chose her words carefully as she turned down her sheets, “Percy must have cared an awful lot about you to visit, even once.”

Credence’s lips twisted before flattening into a line. Then he picked up the wand and his book and settled back into the same spot she had found him in when she walked in. “Thank you.”

She got the impression he wasn’t talking about the haircut, or even the wand. “You’re welcome, Credence.”’

* * *

Bronsted Orphanage was built sideways rather than up, likely to combat the weeds when that had been a problem. It was an old building and looked as though it may once have served as a hospital.

“Here to see one of the children?” The woman at the front desk rummaged through a stack of files next to her feet. “I’ll need you to sign these.”

“Excuse me,” Margaret called her to attention with a cough and held her wand steadily by her hip.

“Yes?” The woman--Alice, her nameplate read--sat up.

“You won’t need me to sign anything whilst I’m here.”

Alice stared at her. “...no, I won’t.”

After that, it was an easy task finding Modesty Barebone among the children in the back.

“I remember you.” Modesty stopped drawing to look up at her.

“Good, that makes things easier.” She sat down with a smile. “How often do you sneak out of here, Modesty?”

She thought about this before answering. “More than they think, and they think I sneak out quite a lot.”

“And they don’t...punish you for that?”

“Sometimes they make me go without supper.”

“They don’t keep a ledger?”

“I think they think my name is Melody.”

Margaret would have felt bad for the girl, but Modesty seemed to find it all rather more amusing than pitiful. “Would you like to see your brother?”

“Yes, please.”

* * *

“ _There_ you are, Maggie! Newt called days ago! How is he by the way? He seemed...anxious.”

Tina ushered them into the apartment she shared with her sister, closing the door quickly.

“We had a very pleasant journey, thank you for asking.”

“Sorry, Clip.” She looked between the mismatched group, chagrined. “Hello, Credence.”

“Miss Goldstein.” He dipped his head in greeting, then motioned to Modesty, half-hidden behind him. “Do you remember my sister?”

“Yes of course.” She smiled. “Hello, Modesty.”

Modesty was holding her brother’s hand, a place she had stuck herself since catching sight of him outside the orphanage. At the sight of Queenie's wand drawn through the air and the shirt trailing behind it, however, she managed to untangle her fingers and walk slowly inside the apartment.

“Mister Scamander is fine,” Margaret said, stepping aside to allow Credence enough space to follow his sister’s zigzag path to Queenie. “As to his anxiety...I'm sure you can guess.”

Tina’s eyes were glued to Credence’s back. She was either truly unafraid, as Newt had learned to be, or a skilled enough liar to pull off appearing that way.

“Did Newt know you were bringing him _here_ to my apartment?”

“I told him I would keep Credence safe. No place safer from the MACUSA than right under Seraphina’s nose.”

" _None_ of us want Madam President knowing the Obscurial is back.” Tina turned back to face her, eyes hard. “I'll keep him hidden.”

Margaret thought of the file Tina had stolen, the maps Margaret had sent back. She thought of the No-Maj she had met--Queenie’s Jacob Kowalski and his near-magical bakery.

Still...with Tina so cooperative, Margaret supposed it would be considered rude to point out that she didn't really have a choice.

* * *

Modesty was small enough to sleep at the end of Margaret's bed and asked the sort of questions designed by children to keep the lights on just one minute more.

“Why does Miss Goldstein call you Clip?” she asked, playing with the end of a pigtail, expertly crafted by Queenie.

“Ah, trench name. Teeny was young, didn't fight, but it followed me back to Headquarters.” She caught Credence looking at her, askance. “Margaret, Mags, Magazine, Magazine Clip. Clip.” She counted off on her fingers.

“Credence was too young for the draft, too.” Modesty wrung her hands in the sheet.

Margaret pulled the covers up to Modesty’s chin. “Lucky for us, then.”

She and Credence got ready for bed in silence, very much like their time on the boat. Credence seemed a man of schedules, but it fit him poorly. She and Percival were made for quiet times like this. The rigor of discipline was drilled into the boy more forcibly than it had been them, and that never stuck.

She didn’t see how rigidly Credence had been holding himself, how well and truly he could hide what was going on behind his eyes, until he met with Modesty in the alley beside Bronsted.

When he swept her up in a hug, his expression was open like nothing she had seen on him, even when he was frightened or angry enough to change forms. He was even more relaxed than in Newt’s presence, a man he seemed to trust the most of those she had met thus far.

It had been a good idea to go to her first, she thought, despite the danger.

“She falls asleep easy.” Margaret flipped the covers back on her own end and motioned to the girl.

Credence nodded, shucking his top shirt and casting his eyes about for a place to lay it. He was still too skinny, she thought, but that may be a permanent fixture now. Her eyes fixed on a pendant that had pulled up with his overshirt and swung around to rest in the middle of his back.

“I know that symbol,” she said, one hand still on the bed and careful not to move too quickly. “That’s _his._ ”

Credence clutched at his chest, looking momentarily puzzled before working the triangle around his shoulders. To his credit, he didn't grab the thing, just let it hang there and stared at it as though some kind of poison were cast about his neck. For all Margaret knew, it was. She leaned forward, and yes, there was the circle and the line as she thought.

“It was Mister Graves... _Grindelwald_ gave it to me.”

“What does it do?”

“I thought it was a magic symbol. Protection.” He busied his hands with the sheets on his own bed. “But Mister Scamander has other books, and I've not seen it anywhere. He said...if I touched this, it would...connect us. Somehow.”

She sat on the bed hard enough to bounce Modesty on the other end. “You can communicate with him through that?”

“...I don't know,” he admitted, body set into a slouch so pathetic she felt herself let the matter quiet between them before she’d made the decision completely.

“Missus Graves?” Margaret pulled her feet up under the covers and turned to see Credence doing the same across the room. “You said before...about Modesty…?”

It was a fairly abrupt shift in topic but not unreasonable. She stared at the girl curled into a lump near her knees and reached under the pillow for her wand, erecting a silencing charm between the two beds before speaking again.

“You two heard a lot about Salem, growing up where you did.” Margaret raised an eyebrow and waited for Credence’s nod to continue. “We had our own troubles back then. A group called the Scourers; the only law before there was government. Kind of like...magical cowboys.” She grinned. “Not a great mix, lawlessness and magic, we found out.”

“Is that how it happened?” He leaned forward on one elbow, and she recognized the expression as one she had witnessed during her school days. He _did_ want to learn, and she could easily imagine him with a pen and paper taking notes as she spoke.

“For the most part.” She leaned her head back. “Our records lose track of a few family lines around that time. A bit of wizard trafficking here, some trade in No-Majs there. Most importantly, this all prompted the basis of our relations with No-Majs today, the International--”

“The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, yes, he told me about that one.”

“He’s not a fan, obviously.” Margaret slid her eyes to meet his. “It was established in 1692, and my ancestor Gondulphus Graves helped found the Magical Congress of the United States of America only a year later, when they were trying to burn the magic folk at Salem.”

“Trying, Missus Graves?”

“We _are_ witches.” She smiled. “How well did it work for those who tried to kill you?”

“Quite well, for a while.”

She turned her face to look him fully in the eye. “I said kill, not hurt. Amazing the kind of pain we go through without dying, isn’t it?”

“What kind of pain have you gone through, Missus Graves?”

She bit her lip to hold back her laughter. “Why, I believe that remark was meant to be _cutting_ , Mister Barebone!”

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” Credence said, too flat to be sincere.

“The Scourers started hiding and quick,” she continued as though he’d never interrupted. “Quickest way to hide after a war? Change your name.”

“Fake passports?”

Her face broke into a smile. “Have you been sneaking _proper_ adventure books?” His eyes widened, and she took pity on him. “But, in this case, I meant _marriage_. In actuality, most of the persecution ended through a proper political system, and many of our adversaries escaped through that same, slippery legal process we in the government pass down at all costs: paperwork.”

By this point, Credence’s thirst for knowledge was beginning to wane; she could see it in the dullness of his eyes. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You’re a wizard, Credence.” She tilted her head. “I don’t know if it’s quite sunk in yet, but as important as No-Maj history is to them, _our_ history is going to be important to you. It’s a widely held belief that the _Second Salemers_ were descended from such Scourers. I’m curious if Modesty is one of the lot, as you may have been.”

“You think...she may have magic ancestry?”

“It’s very possible.”

“Oh,” he said. That was all. None of the questions she had expected followed. Perhaps they were to come later, when the information had time to settle, or perhaps he wished to speak to Modesty first. It _was_ late.

She dropped the silencing charm and cast _Nox_ before stowing her wand beneath her pillow once more.

And then: “Missus Graves--”

“Please, Credence, you _have_ to find something else to call me.”

He was very quiet in his little bed. But then, Margaret thought, Credence was often quiet.

“Missus Margaret?”

“That’s...better, I suppose.” She sighed. _Though how on Earth you got past the embarrassment to write ‘Percival’ on those letters I’ll never know._ “What is it?”

“What did you do? With the MACUSA?” he asked. “Were you a cop like Miss Goldstein or your brother?”

She wondered whether Newt had told Credence all of this or if, in her inattentiveness, she had let more information pass than she was aware. “I was to follow my father into the Department of International Magical Co-Operation.” She stared into the darkness where she knew he was laying in his bed. “I suppose to a No-Maj it would be a bit like the Department of State.”

“But you didn’t?”

“I joined the war,” she replied. “I did come home, but...”

“But?”

“It’s late, Credence. Get some sleep.”

“Goodnight, Missus Margaret.”

* * *

 _M,_  
_I must be honest and say that you write more beautifully than you speak._  
_I know how I looked when you left. I struggled with how to apologize for days, and then...let us say that your letter found me in happier spirits. I cannot imagine New York is any better or any worse than it was, as it was and always will be a wretched terrible place, especially when held to the palm against the beauty of our countryside. I will, of course, tend to the fruit while you are away._  
_Please be careful._  
_Love,  
Élodie_

 _My Élodie,_  
_I don’t believe my heart has left my throat since I read your letter. It feels like, what was the word you use?_ _Amour d'adolescent!_  
_Do I truly write with an elegance to lift your mood? I wonder if this is a common trait among the letter-writer. I have observed this in my companion, who speaks barely a word to me but has written verbose, beautiful letters to my brother--yes, Élodie, to Percival, if you can believe anyone could go goofy over that pill!_  
_Speaking of my companion...it occurs to me, rather belatedly (weeks belatedly, I should say), that I may have been had. The traveler whom I’ve been trying to suss out has been spending all of his time doing the same to me. And he’s quite better at it than I. Or perhaps I’ve underestimated him._  
_Somehow it was easier when we were at war._  
_I feel this one’s been lied to enough as it is, but...something stops me from telling him about you. I don’t worry about you quite so much as I used to, but we’ve not only ourselves to worry over._  
_Kiss my favorite apple for me._  
_Mags_

* * *

“How is she?”

Tina looked over her shoulder as she filled out the address. Margaret rolled the paper in silence.

“Mister Graves told me.” She clasped her hands. “Well, we were all a little shocked when you left…”

Margaret turned and stood. Here, too, was another person in Percival’s life. Someone who saw something of him, knew him in ways over the past four years that Margaret had lost the right to.

She wanted to ask Tina...how had she _not known_?

“She’s well, thank you, Tina.” Margaret handed her the letter. “Make sure this gets to her, please.”

Tina's brow furrowed, and Margaret counted to three in her head. Modesty was explaining how radio waves worked to Credence (something she had apparently picked up from her short time at Bronsted), and Queenie was at Headquarters. Margaret got to eight before Tina nodded as though making up her mind.

“So, what do we do now?”

“ _I’ll_ be going back to Percy’s apartment.” She held up a hand to forestall any objections. ”You and your sister have involved yourself enough in this, and trust me, it’s been more than helpful.”

Tina looked through the doorway, where Modesty and Credence still had their backs to them. “I suppose someone will need to keep an eye on things around here.”

“If you really want to help? Tell me,” she leaned in, “who's the biggest underground ingredients seller you know?"

* * *

“These codes are telling you nothing.”

“Says you.” She stared between the list of contacts Tina had gathered for her and the line of scribbles on Credence’s page. “Assuming our friend uses the same ciphers with everyone, we now have a base code. And Polyjuice ingredients let us know a great deal.”

Credence continued to look at the sheet with an unhappy expression.

“You don’t like feeling useless do you?” she guessed.

“With as much as we know...will you call the President?” he asked, head tilted in a way that looked very _pretty_ now, with his jawline and cheeks filled out more every day (aided in part by Queenie’s cooking). Margaret felt like she was being tested.

"If the MACUSA gets involved this early, there's a chance we’ll lose whatever trail we have. A big group is louder, clumsier, more prone to following evidence that doesn’t exist. And who’s to say Seraphina’s not with Grindelwald?” Credence’s chin lifted, though she suspected he was less surprised at the thought and more shocked that _she_ had been the one to say something like that out loud. "Besides I'm just as happy with them not knowing I've come back to New York as you are. I've cut out a perfectly pleasant slice of life without the Congress in my affairs for the past four years, and I'd like it to keep that way.”

“What would happen if they found you?”

“Nothing so dramatic as what they’d do to you. I've been...entreated to take on more responsibilities since Percival’s supposed death,” she said. “There’s never _not_ been a Graves in Congress. My money's on the extended family wanting me to do some government work to keep up appearances until another comes of age or suitability.”

“What do you do in France?”

“I make wine,” she replied, then after a moment of thought added, “with my wife.”

“You have a wife?”

“Yes.” She grinned at the slack jawed expression she could never have pictured on Credence’s face. “Élodie. She's at home now with our daughter, Apolline.”

“You have a _daughter_?” His voice, normally a quiet, firm thing, was loud and almost an octave higher. Margaret burst into delighted peals of laughter. “What are you doing here? This is dangerous!”

“The very reason Élodie was so upset when I left.” She wiped the corners of her eyes, still shaking from her laughter. “And I’m sure Apolline misses her bedtime stories. But I received the letter from Seraphina…”

 _Margaret,_  
_I have your brother’s wand and the personal effects of his office. Come pick them up at your leisure._  
_Seraphina Piquery,_  
_Madam President, MACUSA  
P.S.-I’m terribly sorry, Maggie. _

“I'm a woman of two families it seems. I need to reconcile that before I move forward.”

“Why didn't you say you had a family in France?” he asked, and for the first time in nearly two weeks a darkness surrounded him. She couldn’t say what had caused it. Only that he was suddenly _very_ angry. “We were there. We could have--”

“I have only so much conviction.” She reached a hand forward to cover one of his own and felt his fingers jump under her touch. “Had I seen my home again, I certainly would have stayed.”

“Besides,” she pulled back when she felt him still, and the blackness in the room receded to the dull yellow of the Goldsteins’ apartment lights, “you never asked.”

* * *

Somehow seeing Percival’s apartment the second time was...foreboding.

Likely it was the pewter cauldron, Moly, various scales, and other potion ingredients she had strapped across her hip in a loosely tied satchel.

Credence was looking up at the building under lashes made even darker in the half-light of dusk.

“Familiar?”

“I came here,” he said, “once. With your brother.”

She swallowed. “You’re sure about that?”

He nodded. “It was almost a year ago. He made me some kind of medicinal paste and told me I couldn’t come back. That’s...when he told me I could write.”

 _Probably a healing salve. Percival_ , she thought, taking the stairs two at a time and trying to keep her breath as steady as her feet, _you great moron._

She set her ring into the side of the bed and watched the purple glow from the steps to Percival’s room--Grindelwald’s room, now, she should call it--wash over Credence’s slender frame. She was going to have to set up her potion down there. Which meant…

“Your necklace, if you please, Credence.” She held out a hand, and Credence stared at her, hand rubbing back and forth over his sternum, weighing. “I’m going to use it for something potentially more dangerous than speaking to a jailed criminal. Is that all right with you?”

After another moment, he ducked down and slipped the pendant over his head, holding it out to her.

“Thank you.” She squeezed his fingers. “If I don't come out, make _sure_ Tina sends my letter. Please.”

Credence continued staring after her as she walked down the steps.

The potion was a fairly simple one, technically speaking. Most required waiting, which was where many wizards and witches lost it--power they had, patience they lacked. This was the sort that required something a little more...personal.

Margaret stared at the wand, surrounded by that glowing sigil, obviously a ward of some sort, and the etched in code that Credence managed to bring to her over the course of five days, the wonder.

 _Piece of myself_ , Grindelwald’s ward read. She held the silver triangle close to her face before dropping it into the smooth, blue liquid and circling her wand above the cauldron twice.

Then almost dropped it into the cauldron as well at the sight of Credence hovering near her left shoulder.

“I thought I told you to wait upstairs,” she hissed.

“You were being dramatic,” he said, taking a step back and _still_ his feet made no sound. “I was worried.”

Margaret rolled her eyes, pulling out her smallest pouch.

“Is that...my hair?”

“If I say _no,_ will that worry you less?” she asked without bothering to look at him. “You know those rhymes? Something borrowed, something blue? This potion calls for…” She dragged a finger down the list. “Piece of my flesh, piece of mine enemy. This is the closest I’m willing to get, honestly. And _why_ I’m so afraid everything’s going to go,” she took a deep breath, “very wrong.”

“So it might not even work?”

“Important magic lesson,” she pulled out a flask and used one of Queenie’s kitchen spouts to pour (she’d learned early that her wand didn’t mix well with potions beyond a simple stir), “a great part of magic is _intent_. Incantations, vows, potions, you name it.”

Behind her, Credence was silent.

“You can still leave, if you want.” She held the now full bottle over the thrumming ward. When she turned, Credence, and the slowly-growing Obscurus behind him, were staring at the flask as though daring it to try something untoward. Percival’s wand, by his side, gripped tightly in his hand.

She poured the slightly viscous blue liquid out in slow starts and stops, watching it turn bright white as it hit the table, then a dark red as it filled the places where the ward glowed and struggling between an ash gray and black at the deeper cracks in the wood of the table.

When the liquid was settled, she set the flask aside, asking once more with her eyes, if Credence would leave. Credence, who puffed up like a windowsill bird and would have looked sillier were it not for the darkness floating across his shoulders like a supportive cape.

The wand lay in the center of a black and red circle now. Her fingers reached out, touched the wood, and she drew in a sharp breath when...nothing happened at all.

“It worked.” She laughed, a sharp barking sound that reverberated between the walls. “It _worked_!”

“Why did we even _need_ this?” Credence’s shoulders relaxed in small increments, but she had a feeling the darkness surrounding him wouldn’t disappear until they were gone from this place entirely. For now, at least, he examined the wand she held with great interest. “What is it?"

“This, Credence, is leverage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the awesome [goddamnrey](http://goddamnrey.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

“Have you considered…”

Credence let the sentence hang, and Margaret continued to pack her ingredients in silence, leaving the wand for last. By the time she stood, he was on the other side of the room, Obscurus completely unseen and conversation seemingly dropped.

"I meant it when I said you could ask for things.” She pulled her satchel farther up her shoulder. “That means you can tell me things too."

Credence stopped playing with a dying plant (likely dead before Grindelwald ever got his hands on it, knowing her brother’s propensity with shrubbery) long enough to look at her. "Have you considered that Mister Graves was working _with_ Grindelwald?"

"You know,” she removed her ring from the bedpost and slipped it back onto her finger, “you're the first person brave enough to ask me that. Everyone's thinking it.” She joined him by the window. “Yes. I had considered it...and then I dismissed it."

"Why?" Credence’s voice was flinty.

_Give me a reason,_ his question asked. _Tell me I had something real for a second._

"Remember when I told you my brother was fair?” Credence nodded, eyes on something outside the window. “I wasn't kidding about that. He was the one who got my wife, for lack of a better word, deported."

Credence’s eyes widened, lips pressed together tightly.

"Grindelwald's ideology would have been _perverse_ to someone like my brother. Percival believed so firmly in the Statute of Secrecy that those things Grindelwald did, telling you about our world, _showing_ you his magic?” She snorted. “Percival never would have agreed to that, even if…” she glanced at him, “even if some part of him wanted to."

Even as she said it, she didn’t know how true the words were. She couldn’t believe her brother so changed, but...he had invited Credence into his home, apparently, and asked him to _write_. It had been four years. What _could_ she know about Percival Graves now?

"But some of it--the magic, the...kindness when it was there--I liked that," he replied, quieter now, and Margaret felt her jaw tense. "I know how that sounds, I know. I've been through it all with Mister Scamander."

"It's fine." She held up a hand, and he looked back to his spot, out of the window, slightly disappointed.

“All I can think about is...he _looked_ like him.”

“I said, it’s _fine_ , Credence.” She chanced a hand on his shoulder and kept it there when he didn’t move away or lean into the touch. “Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it then. _Whatever_ that means.”

"I don't even know _how_ your brother feels about me," he said, almost too quiet to hear.

_My guess is 'complicated.'_ Margaret thought, her mind on a stack of love letters wrapped in her mother’s necklace. "When we find him, you can ask him."

* * *

“I’m not sure if you should come to the back with me. Beings have a particular nose about other beings, and...Credence?”

Credence wasn't listening to her, his eyes on two gentlemen sitting very close together at the center of the bar, occasionally laughing into the other’s space.

“Credence?”

He turned back to her. “I’ve heard about these sort of speakeasies.”

“You have?”

“Where men can--”

“ _No!_ No.” She interrupted firmly. The last thing she needed getting back to Newt and the others was a rumour that she'd taken Credence to some sort of...underground _brothel_. Adult or not, she wasn't sure how much respect that would lose her. “Not that sort of speakeasy.”

He seemed to accept her simple answer at least. "No one's saying anything to them.”

“Well, _no_.” They weren't really going to discuss this, were they?

But then who else would he speak to? Percival, by Credence’s account, had kept him at something like arm's length, and Grindelwald…

The more Credence kept to himself about that, the better.

“Why not?” Credence lifted his eyes, seeming to realise that he'd need to drag every scrap of information from her.

“We keep to ourselves for the most part. No need for a specialised joint, unless your partner’s a No-Maj. A Pureblood like me might turn a few heads, but...no one really has time to care about, well, the _fun_ bits.”

It looked as though wheels were turning until something slowly clicked into place behind his eyes. “Sorry, I only thought you said your...proclivities lost you your inheritance. Seems pretty important to me.”

Margaret’s first thought was of Apolline, and how she shouldn’t be having anything like this conversation for another fifteen years, at least. This was closely followed by: _He doesn’t give a shit about America’s avowed bachelors!_

He was slipping in through the cracks again, like smoke, gathering intel when her defenses were down. She opened her mouth to tell him just what she thought when--

“Clippy!”

“Long time no see, Gnarlak.” Margaret felt her lips curl up. The goblin walking towards their table with open arms was the lowest of the low, but he was a familiar face, and she'd had few of those lately. “Since when do you come up to meet the plebs?”

“I make special exceptions for old clients.” He took the empty chair across from hers, eyes cutting towards Credence.“Whatsamatter, kid? First time you ever seen a goblin?”

Margaret followed Gnarlak’s line of sight. Credence didn't look stunned, but he was quite _obviously_ staring.

“Yes,” he said flatly.

“He’s…sheltered.” Margaret fought an inappropriate snort of laughter, moving the upper half of her body to face Credence. “Gnarlak here smuggled my wife out of America four years ago when things went south. He's no friend, but I owe him.”

“Exactly the kind of relationship we here at at The Blind Pig like to foster.” Gnarlak raised his arms, linked his fingers, and rested the back of his head between his hands.

“Smuggled?”

"Oh yeah, big scandal with the little Graves girl."

"I'm here to do business _now_.” Margaret held up a hand between them. “My source tells me you worked with Grindelwald.”

“Your source, she says.” He motioned to Credence with a hand in a gesture that clearly said _Can you believe this_. “Goldstein, right? She mentioned he was wearing your brother’s face at the time, didn't she? Tch, say what you came to say.”

“Fine.” Margaret crossed her ankles, not bothering to sit up straighter. Height didn't intimidate a goblin. She hadn't learned any tricks that _did_ . “You _really_ thought my brother came to a speakeasy for help-- _your_ speakeasy, Gnarlak?”

Gnarlak smirked, looking far less friendly. “Thought he might be trying to make amends.”

And there had been something in the way he said it... _make amends_ with that smirk held just a _beat too long_.

Margaret's hands were across the table before she thought better of it.

“You _knew,_ you piece of--”

“Easy on the threads, Clip.” Gnarlak motioned above her shoulder, likely for whoever had rushed forward to stand down. She loosened her grip and watched him slump back down in his chair, ignoring that angry spark still popping in her throat.

When she sat in her own, she stilled in shock at the feel of Credence touching her fingers beneath the table, somewhere between a pat and a stroke. It was clearly the touch of someone unused to giving comfort. It was...endearing. A memory she knew she’d keep in that place where she stored her fondest others; kissing Élodie in the streets of France after victory was declared. The first moment Apolline looked up at her, newborn and disgusting and absolutely beautiful. Percival teaching her how to swim at the lake behind their cousin’s house…

Percival was...

“Last we met there was no love lost between the Graves siblings. Thought I might be doing you a favour by taking Big Brother out of the game.” He gave her a searching look. Margaret wasn't sure what he saw there. “Ah, humans. So fickle. I told that Veela of yours before I packed her off but you know,” his shrug was aimed at Credence who was hiding his curiosity better than she could hope for, “love.”

“Cut the shit, Gnarlak,” she growled. “Does one of your boys have my brother?”

“Boys,” he called across the room, voice easy and barely heard over the music. “You got an Auror stored away somewhere? ‘Bout...I don't know, human height?”

“No, boss!” Only one voice called back. She caught a few chuckles, too. She didn't know if Credence had realised that he’d pulled out Percival's wand, resting it on his thigh. It was certainly not a weapon he _needed,_ but he seemed to take some comfort from it.

“See, Missus Graves that's _illegal_. We wouldn't do something like that.”

“You can talk to me, or you can talk to Picquery,” Margaret told him, voice low. “I hear she's getting tired of looking for you between all the other messes she's having to clean up.”

“Careful, Graves.” He evened his tone to match hers. “I was always good to you. Nobody, not even Gellert Grindelwald knows where your little family is.” He smiled, sudden and sharp. “But he _could_.”

Margaret _did_ sit straighter then, chilled in ways no weather could.

She had never found anything to intimidate a goblin. She likely never would.

“You're not even worth my time,” he said, under his breath and made another motion this time over his own shoulder. It wasn't until the man closest to her began to move that she gained her sense back, reaching beneath her chair, into her satchel.

“What's this worth?”

Gnarlak stared at the strange wand for several long breaths before shooing his men away and calling for another drink.

“Now you're speaking my language, kid.” He reached for it as she pulled it back and carefully stored it away. “I wasn't working that line of things, but I heard a few whispers.”

She placed a hand on her satchel, where the wand lay safe inside for now. “You know the guy?”

“Go talk to Rodgrat.” Gnarlak stared at her hand with greedy eyes. “He's the one you want.”

* * *

When Margaret left New York, Rodgrat was too low level for her to ever bother with. Now he had an actual shop on LaGuardia.

“It even has a sign…,” she noted, tapping it as she walked through the door.

“Store closes in twenty,“ he said, not looking up from cleaning the flask in his hand. She examined the display case above his head and said nothing. To her right, Credence made his way across the room, hand tracing along a row of ingredients, in the direction of what looked to be a stock room door.

“Rodgrat, you probably don’t remember me--”

“Sure I do. Graves the younger. Used to trade in information around here until it got you into trouble with Graves the elder.”

“What can you tell me about him?” she asked, ignoring the turbulent buzz of disquiet in her skull. “Percival Graves.”

Rodgrat looked up at her for only a moment; sharp, dark eyes. “Don't know. Never had the pleasure, from what I hear.”

“Grindelwald then,” she said in a rush, calling his attention to her as Credence slipped through the door.

“He came to me when Gnarlak ran out of boomslang,” Rodgrat replied easily. “Thought it was the other Graves. You're not back with the MACUSA, are you? I don't _have_ to answer these?”

“Consider it a favor for a worried sister.”

Rodgrat laughed.

“A favor for a paying customer, then.” She rolled her eyes and produced a few silver coins. Her eyes caught on the large horn above his head, and she motioned in its vague direction. “That there.”

“Where's your friend?” he asked, reaching up for the item.

“Friend?”

“He's quiet, but I'm not so short I didn't see him walk in with you.” Rodgrat gave her a look over his shoulder. “Boy! Stop skulking in the shelves and get over here where I can look at--”

“ _Margaret!_ ”

Her first name. No Missus. _Must be serious._

But Margaret couldn't think about what that serious thing would be, thrown across the counter with her hands on Rodgrat’s bony shoulders. She dragged him off the ladder, slammed him onto the wood surface, and he hit it on his side. The wood pressed into her ribs was hard, and she didn't have time to check if the crunch she heard was the glasses or his nose before her grip loosened, and he slumped to the floor.

She rolled him over with the toe of her boot, if only so he wouldn't wind up drowning in his own blood, before pocketing her silver again with a muttered thanks.

She followed the path Credence had taken, through the door and down a short sets of steps. He stood motionless at the end of the hall. No, not motionless--observant. He was examining something. Margaret moved closer to see more of the code around a solid oak door.

“What’s it say, Credence?”

“I’m trying,” he said. “We need something to open it. Circle grave?”

Margaret stared down at her right hand. “Move, Credence.” She ran her fingers along the edge of the frame until they ran into a noticeable dip. It was big enough for her ring, and she slipped it off to press it into the juncture between door and wall.

“It clicked, Missus Margaret,” Credence pointed out in a whisper.

She placed herself firmly in front of Credence’s line of sight, hand on the doorknob and steeling herself for whatever she may have to see. She opened the door, rushing through quickly enough that she didn't have to think about the action.

There was a table and chair just inside, and shoved in the far left corner was a bed. And Percival _was_ there, though not beaten and bloodied. Not anything she had been expecting, _dreading_ for weeks. He was laying under the covers so still he looked dead, but... _there_ , yes, that had been a breath.

In the wake of her stillness, Credence made it to the bed first even with his slow gait. She rushed to his side, something clicking into place before he could touch him.

“Stop.” Credence froze, hands a mere inch from the edge of the pillow. Margaret drew her wand out, scanning it over his head. She didn't need a mediwitch.

“I've seen this before. _Scitis Menti_.” Credence stared at her, face as agitated as his twitching fingers. “You likely wouldn't recognize it even if you'd grown up learning. It's an altered _Legilimens_ spell used for intel gathering.”

“Something that works _better_ than reading minds?”

“In a way.” Margaret rubbed her neck, wondering how much she should say.

Credence had been lucky enough to be born when he was, avoided the draft, and ended up in something all together terrible anyway. She had hoped there were certain things about the wizarding world he--any witch or wizard his age--shouldn’t have to learn. But Grindelwald's presence here in America, and still here in this spell, proved these were lessons that needed to be taught.

“It traps the person in their own head so they only know what you're feeding them. Drowns out every other memory, every other connection. It would _normally_ have to be recast,” she said, _but the wizard who cast it is not normal,_ resting heavy and implied.

“How do we fix it?”

Margaret took a step forward, trying more to get a read on Credence than anything. His face was impassive, focused, though his fingers were held tight as a wire garrote. He was solid, his preternaturally dark eyes shining in the low light.

“Missus Margaret?” He turned them to her.

_Dark eyes,_ she thought, _not white._

“It wears off. Obviously this one...hasn't. The caster can cancel it,” she said and moved on quickly as that wouldn't be an option. “There's a potion, but it takes days to make. Which leaves a counter. I can go in, but it'll be risky.”

“What kind of risk?”

“I could turn him into a walking shell of a human being.”

Credence’s mouth opened once, twice, then shut with a click of his teeth.

“I need you to go upstairs and keep an eye on Rodgrat. If he starts waking up, wake _me_ up, no matter what it takes.”

When no further comment came from him, Margaret lifted her wand to Percival’s temple. Strangely, with arm raised and breath steadied, it was to the more pious of his letters that her mind drifted to.

On a whim, she asked, “Pray for me?”

He gave her a flat look. “Missus Margaret, I've been praying for you since we boarded the boat.”

She grinned, only a little flattered. “...pray for him, then?”

“What makes you think I ever stopped?”

* * *

She was surrounded by apple trees.

It was the first thing she noticed; an orchard and, beyond the edge of that, a large building that she recognized as a barn. It wasn’t the only building in sight--there was a farmhouse, too, or the shape of one at least--but it was closest, and so she followed the path of the trees to its door.

Everything here looked clean and well-structured. She would have made a joke about the organization of her brother’s mind, were it not for the crushing familiarity of the place that she couldn’t quite figure out.

She could make out the recognizable snorts of horses before she reached the barn--stables, then--and the sound of a woman’s singing voice above the noise.

“Hello?” Margaret entered the first stall, where a dark-haired woman was running a wide brush down the neck of a chestnut mare.

“Oh! Hello, Margaret!”

Margaret felt her whole body stiffen as the woman turned dark brown eyes on her. A long, straight nose led down to a small, warm smile. Margaret knew that smile.

“We didn't know you'd planned a visit today!”

“...Mama?”

She didn’t care how ridiculous she must look with tears springing to her eyes. She took two steps forward to wrap the woman-- _her mother_ \--into a tight hug.

“Oh goodness. That's a warmer hello than I'm used to.” Mama relaxed in her arms. “I swear you and your brother are getting more tactile every day. There must be something to this leaving home business.”

Margaret felt the wind leave her, tightening her grip further. Of course, none of this was real. This place was somehow more awful than she had imagined. The perfect day, they had nicknamed it during the war. Break someone's fingers, strip their magic down, and you still might get nothing...but give them everything they think they want?  Hell, they may just defect.

When she’d witnessed this spell used before--for she could never get it right herself--it had been nothing like this. The things she'd seen offered had been money and beauty and bodies, not...dead parents.

What Grindelwald could do was awe-inspiring. The lengths he would go to frightened her.

Her mother pulled away with a slightly concerned smile, then began to clean the brushes the way she had taught Margaret.

“My brother…” Margaret steadied herself, clinging to the last thing her mother had said and the only real thing she knew here. “Yes, I'd like to speak to him.”

“Percival's just inside. Should I let him know you're staying for dinner?” She tapped her wand against the side of the bucket between her feet, water cutting off from the tip, and looked beyond Margaret’s shoulder curiously. “Were we expecting company?”

Margaret heard the hay crunch behind her, and spun around, her eyes widening at Credence’s thin frame in the open door of the barn.

“Don’t worry yourself,” Margaret said quickly. “I’ll find him.”

In her rush to pass, she nearly bowled Credence over before righting them both and motioning for him to follow.

“I'll meet your friend at dinner?” she heard her mother call after them and had to fight down the urge to turn back for one last look.

Credence spoke after a few steps. “Who--?”

“I told you, this spell creates things and people. In this case, things that Percival wants to see,” she explained through her teeth. “Things that make him want to stay.”

Credence looked around himself, seemingly reappraising the environment with this new information.

“That was Hazel Graves, our mother.” She looked around as well. The farmhouse was coming up on them fast. “I think this was one of her drawings.” And now that she could make out the double chimneys, and the blue trim along the porch, _yes_ , it had to be. “Percival kept this one. He loved it.”

“It's beautiful.” Credence smiled one of his rare, well-fitting smiles. “Open.”

“Credence, what are you doing here?”

“You said to wake you,” Credence said, straightening his shoulders. “You wouldn't wake up, so I cast that spell.”

“You cast--” Margaret cut herself off with a disbelieving laugh. “Credence, you _can’t_ have just…you don’t even know it!”

“I watched you.”

Margaret sighed. “What about Rodgrat?”

“He’s unconscious again,” Credence said, easily. _Too_ easily. Margaret’s brows drew down. “You didn’t leave me with incredibly _specific_ instructions,” he said slowly. “And he did _look_ like he was going to wake up.” Margaret continued staring, and her brows continued on their downward path. “I'm here now, aren't I?”

“One day, you’re going to make fools of us all,” she shook her head, “if you haven’t already.”

* * *

They found Percival, of all places, _cooking without magic_. His hair fell carelessly around his eyes and, without his suit, he looked half-naked.

“Maggie!” He set down the silver instrument in his hand at the sight of her and dragged her into a hug. “You finally accepted my invitation!”

Margaret was too thrown to react beyond freezing in the circle of his arms. Even in this bizarre world, this was not the greeting she had expected. It was Credence who spoke first, holding out a hand as soon as she and Percival parted.

“A guest,” Percival shook Credence’s hand, eyebrows drawing down before chuckling nervously. “That’s...funny. I feel like we've met.”

“We have,” Credence held on a second longer. “Credence Barebone.”

“Yes, yes I know. You,” Percival looked at their hands, confused. “You write. We write…”

Credence let go at that. “You don't write to me, Mister Graves.”

“No, I do. Your owl’s name is--” Percival blinked faster than any reasonable person had the right to before continuing. “Sorry, I must be thinking of someone else.”

“It’s all right,” Credence said, softly, more softly than Margaret was used to from him.

Percival gave him another searching look before turning his gaze back to Margaret. “Don't tell me you've left Élodie at home. I told you she's free to come around anytime!”

“Free to--”

Margaret felt a familiar choking from the bottom of her ears to the space between her clavicle, and it suddenly didn’t matter that this was happening in his head. This was the sort of anger that she couldn’t control, had never been able to, since coming home. “Am I supposed to forget what happened?”

“Forget? Of course not.” Percival turned back to his cooking. It had no smell, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to tell if they were standing in a real kitchen at the moment, in any case. “You understand now why we did what we did. You weren't right, after the war, all of those tantrums, dealing with criminals. You broke the _law_ , Maggie. Dad didn't want you rushing into anything, that’s all.”

“I _know_ I wasn’t working with a full deck of cards!” She forced through clenched teeth. “I _still_ know that. But you didn't help me! You tried to take away the only person who could!”

He lifted a hand, waving absentmindedly. “Of course, but all that’s better now.”

Margaret grabbed the shoulder closest to her, spinning him around, and aimed her wand straight between his eyes. She felt the familiar energy pour up her arm, heard a muffled shout from Credence and...

...nothing.

Of course, nothing would happen here, but the shock seemed to do enough, and she felt her vision shift as the left half of the room morphed into something entirely different.

Percival’s office, she recognized, was _overwhelmingly_ grey.

To her right, Credence looked at his hands like foreign objects. If she couldn’t use her magic--something grafted into her skin, her blood, since birth--she wondered what it must feel like for Credence, the sensation doubled by the loss of his Obscurus.

Would he wish it gone forever, she wondered.

“What do you remember about Gellert Grindelwald?” she asked, unable to face Percival just yet, but lowering her wand all the same.

“He’s...the president. He visits Mama sometimes.”

“Seraphina Picquery is the president.”

“No, of course she is. Maggie,” Percival held his head, taking a step back, “what's happening to me?”

Margaret helped him to sit in the desk chair, the energy leaving her in a deep gasping breath. “Percival you've been hit by an awful spell.” With the ringing in her ears dimming and her heartbeat returning to a more steady rate, she noticed the cracks in the walls. It was getting riskier with every second they stayed. “We’re here to rescue you.”

“Rescue me from what, Maggie? We’re happy now.”

_He's showing you how good it feels, not having to hide. The perfect Defection spell._

“We need to leave.”

“No.” Percival leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and reached for her hands. “Please. Leave me here, Maggie.”

“Not a chance in hell.” She leaned down to whisper. “You want my forgiveness? You earn it the right way. The _hard_ way.”

Then, though she wasn’t sure it would be any easier to bring him out this way, she punched him in the jaw.

“Credence, I need you to take my hand.” She turned to find the space where Credence had been empty and felt her chest seize in momentary panic before her eyes landed on him through the door, in the next room. “ _Credence_!”

He jumped, shoving something into his pocket before running to the disappearing country kitchen and its grey office counterpart, pressing himself into the space between her side and her brother’s slumped body, before they disappeared like smoke.

* * *

 

Margaret entrusted her brother to Credence’s care while she checked on Rodgrat. The goblin was, unsurprisingly, where Margaret had left him, though there was a new figure, hunched over, examining his body. She recognised him by the tall trail of smoke and the stench of a cheap cigar.

“Got a call from some boys outside.” Gnarlak sounded too smug to her ears. “Heard there was a bit of a commotion.”

“How far has this word spread thanks to your _goons_?”

“I imagine it’s getting back to Picquery while you stand here running your gob.” He tapped the tip of his cigar against Rodgrat’s ear. “You owe me a wand.”

She reached into the bag at her hip, pulling out the knobbed thing and throwing it in his direction. At the snap of his fingers, it stopped, halfway between them, hovering precariously in the air then floating gently into his hand.

“Always a pleasure, Gnarlak,” she said, her tone implying anything but.

“Where’d you find this beauty?” He turned the wand over in his hands.

“That’s not a part of the deal.”

“Consider it my up-charge for not corroborating whatever it is my, what did you call them? _Goons_? Have to say about that boy you dragged into my speakeasy.”

“What about him?” She knew it wouldn’t work on Gnarlak, but she’d play dumb for as long as she could.

“I imagine the MACUSA would pay a pretty penny to hear the Obscurus is back in town.”

“Damn goblin magic,” she muttered. Gnarlak waved the wand at her. “Grindelwald used my brother as a walking skinbag. Where do you think I got it?”

“This is his?” He twisted his wrist, turning the tip away from his face carefully. “Well I’ll be damned. Not sure whether to thank you or curse you.”

“ _Don't_ thank me.”

He chuckled, low and dry. “I’ll give you the day to skip town, for old times sake.”

* * *

Newt’s notes about Obscurials had advised against any form of Apparition or Portkey...but perhaps just this once.

"Credence, I'm going to do something that might feel a little strange.” She pressed the warning into her tone. “I need to take us to the Goldsteins’ very quickly, but...it may feel terrible for you."

Credence cast a quick glance at Percival. It had been hard work getting him into the alley and outside of whatever wards Rodgrat had placed. There was no way they were dragging him more than a block. "I'm sure I've felt worse, Missus."

She held out a hand. “As you were before, then.”

* * *

If Margaret ever thought to write the details of their stopover at the Goldsteins for a memoir one day, it would be with the sort of calm detachment that can only come from moments of _sheer panic._

She got them as close to the Goldsteins as she was able, which was just outside the back. Credence shook (though he didn’t shake apart), bracing one hand against his knee and the other against the brick wall. Without his support, Percival dropped to the ground like a stone and Margaret made the quick decision to conjure a glass of water for Credence rather than levitate Percival to a more manageable position.

Credence grabbed the water from the air and downed it without question. Margaret would never deviate from Newt’s fastidious note-taking again.

“Credence,” she said, banishing the glass when he finished drinking. “I need you to run upstairs and let Miss Goldstein--don’t worry about which one--know we’re here. And Credence?” She touched his elbow keeping him back a moment longer. “Try to keep Modesty in the kitchen if you can?”

Credence nodded, still too pale for her liking, then disappeared into the backdoor of the brownstone.

Margaret had managed to push Percival off the ground into a sitting position by the time Tina appeared.

“Door or fire escape?” Margaret asked, raising her wand.

Tina gave the stairs above her head a measuring look. “Fire escape. I’ll tell Queenie to open a window.”

“Should I run a bath?” Queenie asked as soon as Percival was settled on Tina’s bed.

“Don't,” Margaret answered sharply. “I need tickets to Europe, now. They don't have to be legal, they just have to be for this afternoon.” Queenie grabbed her coat from the bottom of the bed and tugged it on as she ran out of the room, clearly desperate to do _something_.

Tina passed her wand down the length of Percival’s body, assessing the worst of the damage.

“Looks like they fed him, at least,” she said from the corner of her mouth. “Some tissue damage, though.”

"Can you get in touch with Newt?"

Tina shook her head, stowing her wand away. "We'd have to schedule a call. He's never--"

“In one place, I'd gathered as much."  Margaret grabbed Percival's hand, ignoring how cold it was against her own, and slipped his ring from it. “Do that, and let him know we’ll be joining him as soon as we’re able.”

“Newt isn’t a mediwizard.” Tina narrowed her eyes accusingly.

“No healers, no hospitals.” Margaret ignored the suggestion.

“ _This_ is the time to go to Picquery, Margaret--”

“What did you do to Credence?”

Margaret looked over her shoulder at Modesty’s voice. The girl was standing just inside the room looking ready for a fight.

“What were you saying about bringing the President here?” Margaret said under her breath, and Tina shot her a flat look.

“What did you do,” Modesty repeated, less firm in the face of two adults and whatever Percival counted as, “to my brother?”

Margaret didn’t have to bend far to look the girl in the eye, keeping her off-balance with a wink. “It’s just a bit of an upset tummy, pickle. Why don’t you bully him into a glass of water, hm?”

“What’s wrong with _him_ …?” Modesty stared around her to the bed and tried to edge into the room, but Margaret held firm, not so much pushing her out as standing very still until she turned and moved down the steps.

“I’ll be back,” Margaret said, not bothering to look over her shoulder before tucking the ring into her pocket and following Modesty.

Downstairs, Modesty was pressing a glass into Credence’s hand. She gave the girl an encouraging nod, then looked at Credence. When he met her gaze, his eyes were no longer glassy, his face no longer covered in a sheen of sweat--a good sign.

“Modesty, when you’re done here, I’d like you to pack please.” She had amassed very few things, but Margaret didn’t want them left behind. “Credence, help her."

"Of course," he said, brows drawn.

She made it to the door before he spoke again.

“Where are you going?”

“To _finally_ take what’s mine.”

* * *

“Proof of Death?” The goblin asked without raising her eyes.

Margaret slammed both Percival’s ring and her own on the counter and felt her stomach clench in anticipation. A part of her had been waiting for this moment for years. No matter how it came to be, it felt good. She wouldn’t let this most recent mess take that feeling of victory away from her, at least.

She stood by as the goblin arranged stack after stack of papers--deeds, she suspected--then placed herself between them with a ledger.

“You’ve been out of the country for longer than permitted, Missus Graves. We’ll need a member of the bank to cosign.”

_Shit._ She’d have to call Goldstein.

“I’ll sign.”

Seraphina appeared at her elbow, all grey and gold and arched eyebrows. The goblin gave her a long look.

“Very well, Madam President,” she said, turning back to the vaults with Margaret’s papers. “I’ll get these processed.”

“A withdrawal?” Seraphina asked when they were alone. “Wouldn’t transfer and closure save you more time? Assuming you won’t be staying in the States.”

“I don’t trust banks,” Margaret replied, jaw tight.

Seraphina turned to rest her elbow on the counter and lowered her voice a fraction. "Dead or alive?"

Margaret stared straight ahead. "The less you know about it the better."

"Either way, it's going to look bad, you know?"

"I'm not yet worried about my sterling reputation."

Seraphina removed her elbow, straightening her shoulders, then the front of her suit. "You'll take care of things, Clippy?"

"I'll...do my best." Margaret slid her eyes to the taller woman.

"Good." Seraphina nodded. "We'll be combing over The Blind Pig for a while...shouldn't reach the South Docks for at least a few hours."

"I'll write, Sera."

"You'd better, this time."

* * *

Margaret nearly tripped over Modesty’s suitcase stepping into the brownstone. She bent to right it, and two black shoes appeared in her line of sight.

“He’s coming with us?” Credence asked from somewhere above her.

Margaret stood slowly and thought about how best to answer him. The truth was, she didn’t know. How well had Grindelwald’s spell worked? Would Percival act in Credence’s best interests now that he was something _other_ entirely?

What would he think of her?

She settled with, “Would it be a problem if he did?”

Credence shook his head, looking too forlorn to be believable. “He did write to me. There,” he explained, patting his pocket.

“You can’t bring things back, not from a place like that.” She winced. “I’m sorry.”

Credence shrugged, obviously affected.

“I don’t have a lot of _good_ to hold on to…” She trailed off, struggling for what she meant to say. “That is, Percival and I parted on bad terms; and it was the _real_ Percival, make no mistake. The good memories I do have of him are from so long ago.” She shook her head, smiling a little. “What did you _really_ think of my brother, Credence?”

“I thought he seemed _important._ ” Credence reached out a nail to scratch the wood of the coat rack. “When he talked to me, I thought _I_ was important.” She watched his fingers clench around the delicate piece of furniture, wondered where his mind went then.

He had been writing, mostly, to an idea he had of her brother. She wondered how the real thing would measure up.

“Does that matter now? I didn’t do this for him.” He ducked his head. “Not just him.”

She tapped her pinky finger against his, and his hand slowly uncurled. “I think Modesty will like Europe.”

The girl in question was at the kitchen table with Queenie, reading what Margaret thought was a recipe book until she drew closer and realised to be a list of potions ingredients. Margaret elected to ignore this, as she could make out Tina pacing in front of the closed bedroom door upstairs.

“He found out Grindelwald was in custody, and he demanded the case file.” Tina looked ready to tear her hair out in frustration. Her steps slowed and stopped at Margaret’s arrival. “I wasn’t able to tell him about you and Credence,” she admitted. “I think all he remembers is whatever happened before.”

“You think?” Margaret felt her own frustration mount, ebbed only by the knowledge that it had been the _smart_ move not to mention them at all. “I told you to take care of him.”

“I _tried_.” She crossed her arms. “He won’t take Dreamless Sleep. and I didn’t care to try duking it out over a Sleeping Spell. He may not be Grindelwald, but he's still technically my boss.” She tacked on, quietly, “I think.”

“He’ll wear himself out eventually.” Queenie placed her hands on Margaret’s shoulders in a calming gesture.

“I appreciate it.” Margaret patted the hand on her right shoulder before squaring her shoulders and entering the room.

Percival was holding a very familiar file, and he looked absolutely wrecked. She didn't blame him; she remembered everything the report said.

"Miss Goldstein,” Percival flipped a page, eyes continuing their steady scan. “I know you've warded this place, but I need to get a message through to the President."

Margaret coughed, and Percival looked up at the sound.

When Hazel Graves died, Margaret had left the MACUSA and America for the first time. Thirteen years later, she couldn’t remember what her father said to her or how she replied, but she remembered his eyes, as dark and bewildered as Percival’s now.

"Mag--Margaret." He set the papers aside. "What are you--?"

"Do you remember anything?" she asked keeping her voice as toneless as possible.

"I was investigating an incident on Canal Street..." He stared at her as though she were a ghost. "Margaret, why are you  _here_?"

"You were placed under a _Scitis Menti_ spell," she ignored him, watching closely as the information passed across his face in frustration then resignation. "Pulling you out the way we did is likely what caused the memory lapse."

"We? You helped Miss Goldstein?"

Margaret shook her head, knowing this part would be a necessary evil.

_Ah well,_ she thought, _if it comes to it I can always Obliviate him_.

"It was only Credence and myself,"

Percival’s eyes widened a fraction. "The report said--"

“The report was incorrect,” she cut him off. “I’ve emptied a portion of the family vaults--enough for you to live comfortably for a good while--and will be returning to Europe within the day. Credence Barebone is coming with me, and his sister. We have a ticket for you, if you'd like."

He stared at her, then down at his hands, seemingly stuck.

"What do you want to do, Percival?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays everyone, enjoy the double update this week!

**Excerpt from a traveler's letter written in 1914, kept in the vault of Percival Graves:**

_I interrupted what was a Veela wedding ceremony in Bulgaria last week. You would understand why I didn't know what was going on if you ever have the pleasure of witnessing one. I genuinely thought I was performing a rescue of some sort. In a way I was. I was in such a panic I apparated with one of the intended and came to find they really didn't care to be married (as it turns out supernatural beings have issues in that department too). Veela don't like humans much, but the one with me now is too relieved to kill me, and while they won't admit it, I think a bit curious as well. Never met an American--I'm exotic, Percy!_

_Veela live up to the legends, I'll tell you that much--they were beautiful, even the men. I wasn't sure what sort the one with me was, but I've been told now her name is Élodie. French, if I've got the accent right. I could take her back that far if the Muggles (that's what they call No-Majs here) weren't so keen on starting a fight._

_Speaking of, is the old man really pushing through that bill against wizards lending a hand? Tell me he knows the odds against that--tell me **you're** not backing that particularly stupid horse. I mean it, Percy, the Ministry tried for that sort of nonsense over here and you see how well that's worked._

_I might join up, help speed things along. Don't tell Daddy._

_Maggie_

* * *

**Excerpt from a soldier’s letter, intercepted and edited by Elizabeth Elsner of the MoM’s Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee, 1918:**

_Well, [NAME REDACTED] I told you about that woman who's been helping us, [NAME REDACTED]? Can't rightly remember what she told us her name was first day and she doesn't even pretend to be a man well most days, but we're hurting for boys something awful out here and she’s as quick a reload as anyone in the regiment. We call her Clip, mostly ‘cause the name, and because bullets never seem to run out when she's around._

_I didn't think anything of it until day before yesterday. We were out on our own in [LOCATION REDACTED] and surrounded completely. Clip lost her gun up someone's skull, and I was out of mags myself. I prayed for us because Clippy isn't the religious sort, and I knew we were dead. Then she_ _[LINE REDACTED]._  
  
_It was like magic. We had them all fanned, enough that we could get out, when one appeared right in front of us. I was going at him with the butt of my gun and, I swear to you, Clip grabs what must have been the tiniest stick on the ground to menace him with. I laugh about it now because I'm alive, and Clip must have looked so damn scary even with a stick that he took a step back._

_None of it mattered--we got out because the man had a hole put clean between his eyes by a bloody Frenchman (literally) when their troops finally arrived. I didn't think Clippy would be shaken in the face of death, I suppose that's silly of me, but she was so grateful, she hugged the new arrival._

_I know some of it sounds crazy. I didn't tell anyone when we got back--didn't want them thinking I needed an evaluation, we don't have the resources, but I had to write to you._

_I'm bunking with the Frenchman who saved us, name of [NAME REDACTED]. All the girls are in love, even Sarah that barmaid I told you about! It's like he's releasing some sort of pheromone._

_I imagine they'll be disappointed to find out she's a woman. Jesus, how many of them are hiding in here?_

_Eugene_

* * *

**MACUSA ID Scanned by the Department of Magical Identities**  
**Subject Verified as Percival Graves**

 _Madam President,_  
_My sister felt it prudent not to inform you of my current state, but I am still a member of Congress and therefore beholden to my position and its tenants until such a time as I am released._  
_Therefore, it is with regret that I must temporarily resign from my post. I believe it in the best interest of the office and the American wizarding community to be away from the States for the time being. Included you will find a timeline and detailed report of what I witnessed re: the criminal Gellert Grindelwald._  
_The fact that I did not deliver this in person should give you some indication of how compromised I now find myself._  
  
**Internal Memo:**  
_Goldstein,_  
_File this at the back with the others, please._  
_Picquery_  
  
**Automatic response from the desk of Tina Goldstein:**  
_Minor spill in Department of Accidents and Magical Catastrophes. Won't be long, leave a note!_  
  
**Internal Memo:**  
_Make that the far back._  
_Picquery_

* * *

_Élodie,_  
_Percival is alive, as I knew he would be. As to how I found him, I have done something, I think...unforgivable. Time will be the judge._  
_I was also able to legally bind a few valuables to my name for future transfer to our estate. I cannot say I feel relief, but I do feel...vindication. And perhaps my brother should feel a certain debt to me after this._  
_I can say I am pleased with Percival's decision to leave America, in light of recent events, though whether this is personal bias I've yet to work out within myself. He knows, vaguely, what has passed and that he has the freedom of choice--I will not force him anywhere through debt or guilt. What I have not said, explicitly, is that a man presumed dead may live whatever life he chooses. It is the freedom of the dead._  
_Who can say what is in his mind. I have had only a glimpse of its inner workings, and I still cannot fathom it.  
_ _On the other hand, I want more than ever to return home. I lay equal blame on the newest member of our traveling bunch; a small girl, older than our Apple, but a solid reminder that she grows older without me there to see. Yet I feel a reluctance traveling to you, with my brother in tow, even as broken as he is. Perhaps learning more of his state of mind, his plans for the future, will put my own at ease._

Margaret felt her shoulders droop as she stopped writing. The trade with Gnarlack weighed on her. Namely, that she had not told anyone of it...and wasn't sure that she ever would. She had finally convinced Percival to take the Dreamless Sleep the first night of their rocky boat ride, and of the five days of travel, Percival slept through the first two with the help of the potion. She used the time to teach Credence the only healing spell she knew. He was more adept at it than she would have thought. _Seen it used before_ , he said, and even managed to pull it off non-verbally by the beginning of the third day.

Margaret hadn’t figured out what she was going to say to her brother when he woke for more than the space to eat his evening meals. She didn’t know how to speak to him, never had. Credence largely tried to be out of the room in those small moments. She didn't begrudge him this, remembering their somber conversation in front of Percival’s apartment. When he wrote to him, the letters still secreted away in her bag, Credence had thought himself a No-Maj.

Their saving grace was Modesty, who watched Credence weave spells with the same awe as she had Queenie, and asked for stories from his new books ( _Fountain of Fair Fortune_ was indeed, her favorite), and kept their spirits up without trying much. There were meals, Margaret was sure, that Percival would not have eaten at all, were it not for the pestering of a small Christian-bred girl who had learned early to finish what was on her plate.

“Missus Margaret?”

Margaret straightened, her right elbow pushing her up against the rail and turning to face Credence. It was the first time she had seen him on the deck.

“Have you written to Mister Scamander?”

He nodded, narrowing his eyes. “How do the owls make it here?”

She laughed. “They don’t. We’ll deliver them from the docks.”

He adjusted his gaze to the letter in her hand at the blatant reference to _them_. “For the Missus.”

“Will we stay there, while we wait?” he asked. Margaret turned back to the sea. “Don’t you want to go home?”

“More than anything.” She rested a cheek on her hand. “But I have a long memory.”

“Is it still bothering you,” Credence joined her at the railing, “whatever upset you in his head?”

She debated lying. "Yes. Does it bother you?" She motioned to her own letter. "That he wrote to you there and not out here?"

He flicked his eyes to her hand, and his own tightened.

"I don't know."

Margaret took in the set of his jaw, the hardness in his eyes, and leaned back on her heels to speak to the sky.

“I _wasn’t_ right when I came back. You probably guessed that much. I didn’t trust anyone, still don’t most days. So for a while, a long while, it was just Élodie and me. I was there for her through some pretty interesting stuff back in Bulgaria, before we even fought together, and after France, she stayed with me. Payback, I guess. But the best kind.”

“And then you got married?” Credence half-turned, hanging on her every word.

Margaret rubbed her forehead. “That’s...technically not possible. Élodie is like you, Being Classification. They don’t let those marry wizard folk, not even the French Ministry.”

“So you just...say you’re married, and people believe you?”

“Didn’t you?” Credence didn’t have a response to that, and the bewildered look that passed his face was enough to make her laugh. “You try saying no to a Veela.”

“It sounds like your father did.”

Margaret stopped laughing very quickly. “You’re right there.”

“Sorry--”

“No, don’t be.” She waved away his concern. “Daddy was _furious_ I had fought, but I left home because my mother had died, and...I wasn’t really keen on what he had to say to me. Coming back to America, that was the mistake. We knew it was a risk, especially after being away for so long. I stayed, for the recovery,” she explained, only realising then how quiet she had become. “We expected betrayal from outside, not within.”

They were quiet for a long time, listening to the water hit the side of the boat.

“Being Classification…” Credence drew the words out, testing them.

“Sounds like a filthy word, hm? You might want to talk to Mister Scamander about it.” She raised an eyebrow. “Were you looking for me for any particular reason, Credence?”

“Yes,” he said. “Mister Graves wanted to see you.” 

* * *

In her time thinking, it had not occurred to Margaret that Percival might have something to say to _her_.

“Credence said you were awake,” she said, watching her brother struggle to sit up. “I suppose you’ll want your things back.”

She had kept the the possessions of his office at the top of her suitcase, and it was only a matter of moments to lay them out on the bed for his perusal.

He ran a hand over the notebook and the odd trinkets she hadn’t taken more than a look at. “Where is my wand?”

“I let Credence use it,” she admitted slowly. She still wasn’t sure where he stood on the side of the law, but...he _was_ here.

“Oh. Good,” he said, the only indication he felt otherwise revealed by a slight twitching of his fingers. “And the Obscurus?”

“What about it?”

“It's still...inside of him?”

Margaret thought of the notes Newt had given her and Credence’s odd reaction to the words _Being Classification_. “I think Mister Scamander wants to try an extraction. It's something he's done in the past--”

“Wouldn't that be dangerous?” Percival looked up sharply.

“Possibly,” she fought a smile, “but he isn’t suppressing his magic any longer, so perhaps not.”

His lips pinched into a line, and she felt not telling him _everything_ would be tantamount to lying. “I should probably let you know that along with your office’s effects, and the vast majority of our family vaults, I am in possession of some of your more...personal items.”

“I’m aware of your adventure to the bank--”

“The letters, Percy.” She crossed her hands behind her back.

Percival remained quiet for a beat before his face turned to hers. She turned away to find them, bound now, and cast the counter charm against prying eyes before handing it back.

“They were wrapped in Mama’s necklace.” She tried for nonchalance. “Not a dark wizard's touch, I take it?”

He flipped through them, slowly at first, then so fast she knew he couldn’t make out the words. Eventually, he shut the book. “You must think I'm a monster, after Élodie.”

“I have to admit I always wished for just desserts after Daddy gave you my share of the vaults, but nothing like this.” She slid her eyes to his face, and for as soft as his voice was, his jaw was as tight as a drumskin. “Well, I hope he's rolling in his grave, at least. Are you going to tell me how it happened? You, the Head of Security? What were you thinking?”

“We were investigating his people,” he said, and she fought to hide the shock that ran through her at how easily he decided to speak. “Were he a wizard...had I even suspected he were a Squib, at his age, we could have taken him from them, but…there were younger children there too, you saw. President Picquery told us to branch out, and I told…” He struggled, and after a moment, Margaret realised why, “Credence, he could write me. He did.”

She’d heard Credence tell this part. She knew there was more to the story than that, instead she asked: “Why didn’t you write back?”

“I didn't want to encourage too much. He’s...was a No-Maj. And I had my orders.”

“A compunction Grindelwald obviously didn't share.”

Not a second later, she saw her misstep on her brother’s face. His had always been different than the quickburn anger she trained in and thrived on; he looked drained. He flipped open the book of letters to the first one and read, voice cut through with an emotion she’d never heard in it before.

" _I know why I learned my letters; to write to you_." He shook his head. “He wrote like a soothsayer, don't you think? I couldn't tell, most letters, if it was good fortune or prophecies of doom, and I thought...this is the most ridiculous person I have ever met in my life. And he knows where I live.”

Percival laughed, and Margaret watched him, moving his things to take a seat on the bed.

 “I shouldn't have kept the letters.” he said, after he calmed. “I should have burned them.”

“Grindelwald would have found him somehow, you know that.”

Percival closed the book and let out a low choking sound that might have been a cough. “What's done is done.”

“Is it?” She leaned back on her hands.

“What?”

“Is it done? You almost went back to the MACUSA, and as much as I’d like to credit your grand filial loyalty, I can’t say seeing me is what entirely convinced you to go on this little sojourn.” She almost kept the sarcasm out of her voice for that one.

“I don't know what to say to him.” He didn't deny it. “I’ve read the reports, but...what did you tell them?” Percival sat up a little straighter. "About me, about us? Our world, how much do they know?”

She remembered at least a dozen conversations over the past week and a half, sometimes about Percival, but mostly about her.

She remembered calling him more serious than kind. She still believed it.

“Credence is an adult and can answer questions about his own person. Modesty is not our responsibility.” Percival stared at her, hard, and she rolled her eyes. “As for what they know about you...only that whatever reticence they experienced on your part is _your_ fault entirely. I thought it would be important to prepare Credence, especially, for someone who, while not evil, does have the emotional capacity of a root vegetable. And stop looking at me like that, he had a few questions while we were busy _saving your life_.” She tacked on a flat, “which you're welcome for by the way.”

“I told you to leave me there.” He stared at his hands.

“I guess that answers how much you remember.”

He did look guilty then. “Not much, honestly. I remember it felt very calm. And I wasn’t dealing with the career train wreck of my life there. Not to mention the emotional fallout.”

“And you really want to go back to that?” She lifted her wand. “Because I’ve never been good at it, but I think we can work something out--”

“Of course not, Maggie!” Percival stood in a huff. Margaret drew in her own sharp breath, more thrown by the use of the affectionate nickname than the sudden movement. “Merlin, I just…”

He grabbed his hair, and she’d seen this before. Saw it for years, living with Élodie, before they understood how to get her... _tantrums_ under control. Margaret lowered her wand and brought her forehead to Percival’s.

“Everyone is on your side,” she lied, because he needed to hear it. “He went after you because of your position.”

“He went after me because I was weak willed,” he spat through his teeth.

She laughed. “Percy, you are _not_ weak willed.” And this she did not have to lie about. _This_ she knew.

“Yes, I am. You don't know my mind, Maggie. Five hours of that spell was better than five years of my life.”

She wanted to tell him what she had written to Élodie; that that’s the point. A dead man could, after all, start over, anywhere...with anyone. But if he couldn’t figure that much out for himself, there was no hope for him at all.

“Of course it was,” she said, exasperated, and Percival had the gall to look surprised. “It's a quick fix spell. It's _designed_ to make your life easier. Do you think it was _easy_ for me, leaving my family? It's still...hard living with someone so different, you know? It's hard for Élodie too, being with a human. But I wouldn't trade five seconds of actual time with her.”

And, though she wasn’t sure if she should go there yet, she continued.

“I told you this would be the hard way. You didn’t think I just meant _me_ , did you? I know it can't be easy...let’s speak candidly shall we? We’re adults.” She pursed her lips. “It can’t be easy not knowing how how Credence looks at you now.”

“That's the _least_ of my problems.” Percival pressed the length of his body against the wall of the boat. “What Grindelwald did? I can't change that.”

“You can only apologize for what you did before, Percy.” She sighed, joining him against the bulkhead. “And for the record, you're going to have a hell of a lot harder time convincing Élodie to forgive you, so good luck.”

“Does that mean _you’ve_ forgiven me?” he scoffed, and it sounded so much like the Percival she remembered, holier-than-thou and crystal-cut perfect, she wanted to smile.

“I’m...working on it.” She knew what came out was something closer to a grimace, but she was working on that too. “It’s going to take more than a conversation, you know.”

“Of course.” He nodded, reaching out a tentative hand to cover hers. “Thank you, Maggie.”

She stared at it for a long time. No, she hadn’t forgiven him yet, but she’d put in a lot of work to get him here, so she wasn’t going to reject this.

“You're welcome, Percy,” she said, squeezing back just once. 

* * *

 “...never said you would write back.”

Margaret woke, catching the tail end of Credence’s whispered sentence. She had never stopped spying after the war. It was a compulsion…

That was a lie. It was another on the long list of things _wrong_ with her, and when she was around people she didn't trust--Percival at the top of that very long list--her habit ratcheted up a few degrees. She thought, briefly, of erecting a silencing ward around the bed she and Modesty shared. But Percival, accomplished wizard that he was, hadn’t thought to...and her wand was _so_ far beneath her pillow, after all.

“Regardless, I--”

“But then you came to me, or at least it seemed like you did, after I said...all that.”

“I'm so sorry, Credence.”

Suddenly, the whispering made sense, though Margaret wished they had left to speak about this elsewhere. As curious as she found herself, the unsteady note lobbied back and forth between the men’s vocal chords settled like a heavy stone in the pit of her stomach.

“Here,” Credence said, and an unidentifiable shuffling sound followed. A few seconds later she realised he must have drawn Percival’s wand. "Margaret let me use it."

"I'm happy you were able to have something to protect yourself."

"I don't have trouble with that. I'll never have a problem with that again."

“Still, you keep it until you get your own. I don't feel up to casting with it just yet."

The silence between speech was daunting, and Margaret shifted to a more comfortable position, determined to sleep through them. Like reading the letters, this had been a bad idea.

“What would have happened, Mister Graves?”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm asking, if he never came, would I have eventually worn you down? Even if i were a No-Maj?”

Margaret held her breath and wondered if Credence was doing the same.

“I don't know.”

_Idiot._

“...I don’t know who else to ask.”

“I would have wanted you to,” Percival spoke slowly, carefully, “and I would have never forgiven myself for the weakness of it.”

The room was quiet for so long that Margaret found herself in that cosy place of half-sleep before Credence spoke once again. “I'm going to England with Mister Scamander when he leaves. I'm taking Modesty, and I'm going to study magic.”

"Good. That's...excellent."

"Will it always feel like this?" Credence asked, his question beyond Margaret’s understanding.

Though not, apparently, beyond Percival’s.

"Merlin, I hope not."

* * *

“Where are we going?” Modesty bundled her scarf around her neck until her mouth was near covered with wool.

“For the moment, to my home. You'll meet my wife and child. She's a bit younger than you.”

Modesty struggled with one glove then the other, allowing Credence the honor of pushing down her grey cap. “If she's your wife, how do you have a child?”

“The normal way I expect.” Margaret grinned.

“ _I_ expect some witchiness was involved.”

Margaret snorted. There wasn't, but Modesty was ten. “And how do people normally have a child?”

“Well,” and even under all of her bundling, Margaret caught the flaming red on her cheeks, “I don't know!”

Then Margaret watched as Credence performed possibly the most guardian-like act since they had found Modesty at Bronsted.

"Modesty, that's rude. How would you like it if people started asking questions about you?" he asked this in spite of the curiosity Margaret knew was eating up his insides.

“I suppose.” The eye roll Modesty delivered was one so fierce she looked to be fighting a battle with her own eyelids. “ _Sorry,_ Missus Margaret.”

“Thank you, Modesty,” Margaret said, mock-solemn and trying very hard not to laugh. Beside her, Percival was doing much the same, though his attention was understandably torn between the entertainment Modesty so regularly provided and this interesting new facet to Credence’s character.

Although…

_When he met me, he said he found the way I cared for my sisters admirable._

Perhaps this was something Percival had always seen in the young Mister Barebone.

“Everyone ready?” Margaret hefted her suitcase, much lighter than it ought to be, and led the group to the top deck.

A familiar figure carrying his own suitcase met them at the bottom of the ramp.

“Newt Scamander.” Margaret lifted a hand to block the sun. “Credence, you’ve wasted your ink. This is a pleasant surprise. We weren't expecting a landing party.”

“Tina tells me you all left in something of a rush. I was in the area and thought you may care for an escort,” he said, explaining and not. She knew that trick well. Still, she had very little reason to question Newt’s intentions. Likely he was only here to check on--

“Credence, how are you?”

“Well, Mister Scamander.”

Margaret disguised her laughter inside a cough.

“This is Modesty?”

Newt’s knees stuck out at a jaunty angle as he bent to shake her hand. Modesty gave him a calculating look, taking the proffered digits only a moment before ducking between the Graves siblings to stand beside Credence once more.

As Newt stood, Margaret pushed a hand to Percival’s lower back, pressing him forward. She didn't imagine this would be any less awkward.

“Percival Graves,” her brother said, taking Newt’s hand in a tight-looking grip. This was the calm face Margaret remembered screaming at four years ago. “I've been told America has you to thank for the capture of Gellert Grindelwald.”

"Oh, I've been given a bit more credit than is due."

“Regardless, my apologies on behalf of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, for whatever the hell that was back in New York.”

“It's quite alright. I'm used to the incompetencies of bureaucracy.”

Margaret watched Percival’s jaw tighten. She was sure, in any other circumstance, he would have a scathing retort at the ready to defend the MACUSA, the _law_ , but he _had_ just apologized in their name. It would seem...hypocritical to say the least.

“I’ll admit I’m surprised to see you back in action so soon. Happily so,” Newt added in the silence that followed.

“Can we go now?” Margaret looked at her sleeve where Modesty was staring up, beseeching.

“What do you say, Mister Scamander?” Margaret grinned. "Would you like some first hand field notes on the home life of a Veela?”

Newt’s face was pure boyish glee. “ _Please.”_

* * *

_Mags,_  
_I am glad your brother is alive despite the many times I wished him dead or worse than. There is a new shipment in from Islay I refuse to open until you’re home. So light the fire behind your buttocks, would you?_  
_As for these others, you say one works for the Ministry? You're correct in your heavy handed implication that I will enjoy telling him all the ways he is wrong about Veela culture but, more importantly: Can he marry us? Perhaps have him talk to the French Minister, they are more lenient here. I’ll check with Mother, but I am almost certain his wife is my cousin. I have so many, I lose track._  
_I don't want to move to the city. Apolline has two friends, that is enough. I had no human friends until I met you. And you have no friends now! Do I misunderstand friendship? You may explain this more when I see you. It confuses me._  
_Love_  
_Élodie  
_ _P.S.-Should Percival choose this freedom of dead men, you will, of course, politely suggest a life far from ours._

“I have friends.” Margaret reread Élodie’s letter in a petulant mutter.

Newt appeared at her elbow with a cup of light colored tea that smelled like mint.

“Thanks, you're a sweetheart.” She folded the paper in her hand, taking the mug with a wink.

“Thank you,” he blushed faintly at the praise, “for bringing him back.”

She rolled her eyes, ignoring the burning on her tongue. “He's not a wayward puppy, Scamander.”

“Still, someone had to pay his boat fare.” He managed a fairly decent smirk. “I'm glad to see he's doing as well as he is.”

“Thank your own notes. Though you'll notice I've, ah, amended a few.” Margaret smiled back, blowing into her drink. “How were you? Keep busy while he was away?”

“Somewhat. Ran into an old...friend.”

“That was a significant pause.”

“She was a significant friend.”

“Ah, say no more.” She stared out across the strange terrain from the same seat she had sat in weeks ago under vastly different circumstances. Modesty sat in a patch of red sand, some snake-like creature crawling over her legs and borrowing down into the ground before popping back up in a strange game that only she had worked out. Further out, Percival stood on a slab of rock examining the vast expanse as she had done her first night. Credence had rooted himself firmly between the two, wringing his hands and pacing back and forth before finally standing next to Percival, _almost_ straight. If he stood on the rock beside him, he would be an inch taller, at least, and the thought amused her.

A moment later, Percival nodded and walked away.

“It's like watching a mating ritual.”

Newt turned from the big buckets he was leaning over to follow the path of her gaze. “The mating dance of the adult Obscurial. Think I'll leave it out of the book.”

“Probably best.” She snorted. “I wish I could do something, as silly as that sounds.”

Normally she wouldn't care...she _shouldn’t_ care, but the pages of Credence’s letters had become like a strange human interest piece.

“Take this.” Newt handed her a bucket filled with something unknown to Margaret but _very_ mushy.

“Oh, absolutely not.” She felt her nose wrinkle but lifted one of the buckets anyway if only for an excuse to follow the man.

“Not much of an animal lover, are you?”

“Is that how I came across when we first met?”

He laughed, a short laugh, but not sharp or disdainful--a nice, strumming sound. “Not really, but you know people have,” he paused, tossing out a handful of food into a seemingly bottomless pit, “depths.”

She jumped at the feel of something pressing against her ankle. Four legs wrapped around her calf and she stared down into the face of a monkey-like creature, whose head she scratched with a capitulating sigh. This, she realised, was the danger of following a magizoologist into his nests.

“If you _were_ an animal person,” he raised a brow, taking the bucket she had carried from her, “I would tell you to think of the Peruvian Vipertooth. Two years to mate, three more to conceive. _That’s_ real patience.”

“It's practically celibacy.”

“Everything in its own time.” Newt made a tutting noise. “Even those two.”

She didn’t know what Percival’s plans were, after France. She hadn’t asked. Meanwhile, Credence was going to learn magic and be all the things Percival should have seen he could be but never had.

Margaret thought back to her courtship with Élodie and how much more reticent her brother was, how much less experience Credence had, and wondered if there would be an ending at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for everyone keeping up with this! Just a heads up that the next chapter will be from Credence and Percival's POV and may be longer than a week to release thanks to the Holidays. As always, you can look for updates or just come talk to me on [tumblr](http://feoplepeel.tumblr.com/)!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been brought to my attention that Modesty is 8 in the screenplay. For the purposes of this fic let's say she is ten c: Apologies in advance for the shift in POV but there are some things a sister doesn't need to see. Many thanks to archea2 for combing through my French <3 Beautiful art of Élodie and Mags by goddamnrey, my wonderful beta. Thank you, once again!

_Days like today, when I bore myself, I wonder how dull my letters must read. But each time I deliver a new one, the last is gone. Maybe you're not the one taking them. Maybe you're not reading them at all._  
_Yesterday was stranger, though not for me. As always I see interest in life around me, not my own. There is probably a word for that, living through the lives of others._  
_I could tell you about the people I handed pamphlets to, but you likely know more interesting people than they. You_ **_are_ ** _more interesting.  
__I lost my place. Yesterday was more interesting. Ma was speaking to the senator's son. I don't trust them._

Percival had told his sister he didn't write which was the truth of it, though perhaps not the whole truth. He rubbed the last letter Credence had written between two fingers and considered that, upon receiving _this_ for example, had been one of several times he had visited Credence in person. At least, for once, he had an excuse. The senator's son working with Second Salemers was suspicious. Something to ask about.

What he had said, in reality, was:

_“Vicarious is the word you were looking for.”_

_“Vicarious.” Credence rolled the word between his teeth once the shock had disappeared from his face._

_“Does the church need anything?”_

_“The church is well,” Credence grinned despite the fact the place was falling down around their ears. “Thank you.”_

“We’re here.” Margaret’s head appeared around the corner, eyes trained on his hands and eyebrow raised. Percival shut the book.

 _Would I have worn you down?_ Credence had asked as though he hadn't already.

His sister’s new home was more of a cottage, brick, with the name _de la Granche_ stenciled into a space beside the door. What, from afar, looked to be weeds became vines upon closer inspection, laced through with small  flowers.

And in its arch stood the beautiful creature that had stolen his sister when she was at her lowest point, with eyes sharp and sky blue, hair as yellow as the flowers decorating the bricks.

“Hello, Élodie.” Percival kept his hands locked behind his back, aiming for polite but unsure how welcome a handshake would be.

Margaret cut off whatever response Élodie had planned, wrapping her up in a tight embrace and lifting her a foot in the air. Instead, Élodie _squealed_ , caught entirely by surprise if the sudden softness in her eyes was anything to judge by. Margaret was almost a head shorter than the woman when they both stood on their feet, his sister's black curls brushing the woman's bottom lip.

Margaret leaned up to whisper something in Élodie’s ear, and Percival saw Élodie soften further.

“Apolline,” Élodie called over her shoulder, and Margaret took a step back to stand beside her, expression a clashing portrait of contentment and anxiety.

A moment later, a head of blonde curls ran from the house and into her legs; a toddler  babbling in rapid fire French. Margaret lifted the child onto her hip, speaking back in what even Percival could tell was a poor excuse for the language, interspersed with English. After one particularly long sentence, the girl turned round eyes on Percival, and he knew at once she was Veela, at least in part.

Margaret bounced her, adjusting her further up her hip. “Apolline, this is your uncle Percival.”

He looked between the girl’s, _Apolline’s,_ grey eyes to his sister’s darker brown. Her dress was a light blue with a lace collar--the sort of garment his sister had loathed as a child--and there, at the center of the whorls of white, was their mother's brooch.

“Your...daughter?”

A short, disbelieving laugh escaped Margaret's lips. “Yes, I mentioned her _several_ times.” She narrowed her eyes in obvious concern. “Do we need to run another scan on your head?”

Had she? There had been a few conversations with Modesty he had stepped in on, but he had just assumed...Apolline couldn't be more than two. Surely Margaret would have written…

Then he remembered two years ago. When Father died.

_You didn't write. Why would she?_

Percival found that crying, while an unfamiliar sensation after so long, felt just as awful to his eyes while smiling. "You have a daughter.”

Apolline wiggled in Margaret's arms until she was set down. Élodie stepped in closer to the pair, one arm settling against Margaret's hip while the other hand came to rest on the top of Apolline’s hair. As a family they were, Percival thought, picturesque.

“ _Serre-lui la main_.” Élodie tilted her head towards him.

Apolline took a small step forward, her hand outstretched. “Bonjour.”

Percival shook it slowly and, somewhere between his laughter, managed a “Bonjour” in return.

Margaret motioned for the others, who had been standing a polite distance away, to come closer. Percival let go of Apolline’s hand with a deep reluctance, ignored the penetrating stare Élodie continued to cast in his direction, and moved around the corner of the house under the guise of exploration in order to better collect himself.

This was where Margaret found him.

“I can't tell who's more excited,” she leaned against the brick with a sigh, “Apolline for another little girl to play with or Élodie for someone more interested in Veela than I am.”

Percival ran a hand down his face. He was never the sort before--letting these physical indicators of stress slip through--but he felt it was called for now. Especially in the absence of his liquor cabinet. “I came all the way here to be murdered in my sleep by your wife.”

“Don't be dramatic. She let you touch Apolline. That's practically a hug.” She raised an eyebrow. “I _did_ think you knew about her, Percy.”

He waved off her concerns. “You go by Mother’s name here?”

Margaret looked grateful, taking the redirection for what it was. “I chose a French name, rather than a Scottish one. Besides, it was easier when we went into hiding.”

It would have been easy to find too, he thought, but maybe she had never wanted to disappear completely. Maybe she had secretly hoped her brother, at least, would come looking for her.

What a disappointment it must have been.

“Apolline de la Granche,” he tried and found he liked the sound very much.

“Apolline _Graves_ ,” she replied, sounding entirely too resigned. “As much as the countryside has tried, I am not so bohemian. Besides she may need the leverage one day.”

Percival swept an arm out in front of him. “You own all of this?”

“Hell no,” Margaret snorted. “That would be the Delacours. You can see their manor over the hill.” She led him back around the corner. Élodie and Newt were watching Modesty and Apolline from the edge of the sweeping vines left of the house. Credence stood apart from the rest, examining one of the plump grapes between his fingers. Élodie leaned passed Newt to say something beyond Percival’s hearing. A moment later, Credence popped the fruit between his lips, savoring it to a near-obscene degree.

“They have more land than they know what to do with alone, but they're good at delegation.” Margaret interrupted his observations with a knowing glance though, thankfully, said nothing of them. “We turn a tidy profit here, and the Delacours always have wine for those fancy parties they're so fond of throwing.”

“Still,” he found it easier to meet her gaze when Credence looked back towards them, “a vineyard. You? It just seems so...complacent.”

She smacked his arm. “Okay, Mr. Apple Farmer.”

“I like to believe I was an owner-operator.” Percival stared at the place where she had hit him, found himself transported back, for a moment, to easier times, and smiled. “But fair enough.”

* * *

Since discovering the Wizarding World, Credence had beheld many wonderful things. Animals that could turn invisible, _people_ who could turn invisible; potions that could bring sleep and words that could trap it there.

He had grown a plant by _willing it_.

But nothing, to his admittedly limited knowledge, beat _un_ limited heated baths.

Missus Élodie had left him more soap than he knew what to do with and a towel by the door. Calling her by her Christian name had come easier to him, as the idea of calling her Graves and the reaction that might elicit was too scary a thought. She was unlike any woman Credence had met since leaving the church. Élodie was everything he pictured mothers _should_ be. Beautiful, almost ethereally so, tactile, and stern in the kindest way. He thought about her manner with Apolline, holding herself straight backed and exuding calm concern, starkly opposed to the towering command of Mary Lou.

He remembered the time before Ma, at his own orphanage. It would not be somewhere he’d send Modesty to grow up if he could help it. Still...he wondered what image he presented to her. Would he be able to take care of her and himself, all while learning magic? Could he maintain control as he had these past weeks? What if she turned out to be a Squib, as Missus Margaret suggested? So many things to consider. He knew, at least, where to start.

* * *

Downstairs, Élodie was setting up the stove the way he had learned--with paper and by hand. For all of her gold colouring, the serious way she attacked a task reminded Credence more of Mister Graves.

Mister Graves whose idea of a perfect day was a painting by his mother, being at peace with his family, and writing to _him_ , of all people.

Mister Graves who Credence had _no idea_ how to speak to anymore.

Credence’s attention shifted when Élodie, instead of lighting a match, snapped her fingers with a loud _crack_ and a plume of fire shot out from the stove front.

“I may have overreached.” She dusted off the front of her dress and pointed to a chair. “Sit. I will make soup for dinner.”

Credence did as he was told, watching her pull out a pot and arrange the necessary items across the wood of the counter next to the stove before he spoke. “You're very beautiful.”

“Merci.” She smiled easily, without a hint of a blush. Though, as embarrassed as he found himself at having said it out loud, he imagined it was something she heard quite often.

“May I ask you a question?”

“One moment.” She poured a healthy amount of milk into the pot and searched outside the window until her eyes caught on something in the distance with unerring focus. Credence observed with acute fascination as she capped the bottle and placed a score of vegetables in the pot without a minute move of her head, the only sign she was more than a statue in the subtle narrowing of her eyes. She reminded him of a bird of prey.

After almost a minute of this, she turned, pleasant smile erasing the lines from her face, and tucked her dress underneath her to sit. “You may ask.”

Credence shifted in his own seat, the brunt of his concentration on keeping his shoulders back as he spoke.

“I wanted to know about the, ehm, Being Classification?”

Her eyebrows drew together above a series of rapid blinks. “Oh, is that it? I thought you wanted to know about sex!”

Credence lost the battle against his shoulders as he coughed desperately into his hand.

“I had assumed.” She passed a glass of water across the table to him, seemingly from nowhere (for all Credence knew, it _was_ ). “Your sister is awfully curious.”

“Modesty?” he sputtered inelegantly. “Oh, I'm so sorry!”

“Do not apologize.” Élodie, if anything, looked further confused. “I am well versed in human anatomy.”

He drank deeply from his cup, eyes downcast and without the courage to tell her that wasn’t at all what he had meant.

When he looked up, she was smiling very gently, and he thought that, despite her often brusque nature, she must be the teacher of Apolline’s parents. Especially as he recalled his clumsy lesson with Margaret. As patient as she was, an instructor she was not. “What would you like to know?”

“Missus Margaret said there were,” he struggled for the most polite way to phrase it, “classes of witches.”

“I am not a witch, I am Veela.”

“Yes.” He bit his lip. He had worked that out before Margaret had told him, as far back as Gnarlack’s, though he had no idea what the word entailed. He was not _so_ stupid. “Is that bad?”

“Not bad.” She folded her hands on the table. “It just is.”

“You have magic,” he pointed out.

“Yes.” And that, apparently, was all she had to say on the matter. She was much like Margaret in this way, though perhaps not for the same reasons. With Margaret, every scrap of information he had gleaned had been a small victory, her trust of him and his of her being at constant odds. Élodie, on the other hand, seemed very...literal-minded.

“Missus Margaret made it sound awful being around humans.”

“Not so awful,” she said. “But I had a reason to learn about them. Had I not, I likely would have stayed with our clan.” She stared out the window and, this time, Credence followed her gaze. Apolline had made her way, dirtied from the knees down, out of the vines and looked to be explaining something very seriously to Margaret. Beside them, and much to Credence’s astonishment, Mister Graves was balanced on one knee tying the bow at the base of Modesty’s spine with a look of concentration usually reserved for battle.

“People like him kept me away before.”

Credence tore his gaze away, focusing on Élodie, whose voice had taken on something of an edge. “You really don't like him,” he stated, drawing her attention and added quickly, “Not that I blame you! I've heard...a little of what happened.”

“When we left, Margaret cried all the time. I didn't understand human sickness.” She motioned to her ear. “Head illnesses.”

“You must have loved her very much to put up with that.”

“I did not put up with her.” Élodie dropped her hands from the table. “I loved her.”

“Ah,” Credence raised his hands, “‘put up’ means--”

“I know what it means,” she bristled. “My English is accented not misunderstood.”

Credence said nothing, crossing his hands beneath the table and waiting for Élodie to continue.

“When I am angry, I become, to humans, a monster. Even witches and wizards. I was happy her outsides matched my insides for once.” She narrowed her eyes, more assessing than accusing. “You aren’t like me. You have something, yes, but you weren’t born with it. Still, us?” She motioned between them. “ _We_ aren't like _them_.”

Credence nodded. He... _thought_ he understood what she meant.

She sat back in her chair, closing her eyes with a sigh. Credence took the opportunity to look through the window once more. “I do not know if there is a word in any language for what Margaret and I went through to be together. I don't know if words are big enough.”

Outside, Mister Graves...Percival...was standing, a pair of shoes in one hand and his other wrapped around Modesty’s arms to hold her in place where she lay draped over his shoulders, legs curled around his middle.

“I think I know what you mean.”

Élodie cracked an eye open, shaking her head. “Your taste in hairy men. I don't understand it.”

His eyes widened, though focused intensely on his knees. “I didn't--”

"I can smell it." Her voice was laced through with disgust, but when he chanced a look there was a softness to her smile... _teasing_ , Credence recognized it. "Would you like to ask those sex questions now?"

" _No, thank you_ ,” he managed, as the group outside made their way in.

“Later then,” she stood, placing a kiss on Margaret’s cheek who was clearly brimming with curiosity as Élodie turned her attention to the stove. “Someone tell the Ministry Man we have food.”

Modesty dropped to the ground, taking her shoes from Percival’s hand with barely a thanks before racing into the suitcase in the corner of the kitchen, dragging Apolline in after her. Credence watched them descend, then turned back to the door where Percival still stood, as though Credence’s presence were a physical barricade.

“Her shoes were soaked,” he said, though no one posed a question.

“Oh,” Credence fought a smile, if only that the other man didn’t think he was making fun of him. “Thank you.”

Percival seemed to steel himself before walking past Credence. Was that fear or--

“I’m going to take a bath.”

 _An invitation?_ Credence looked, purposefully out the window, ignoring the direction of his thoughts.

“Good,” Élodie spoke from the circle of Margaret’s arms. “You stink.”

Credence turned to watch Percival, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jacket over his arm, pause at the kitchen door, shake his head, and continue walking.

Credence didn’t know what Élodie had been talking about. He liked the hair.

* * *

Percival found Margaret in the living room after dinner, glass of amber liquid in one hand and looking more relaxed, more...herself since he’d first seen her in the Goldsteins’ brownstone. Trousers suited her. She tucked her feet under her, leaning forward in her chair to pour a separate glass for him. He took it with a nod of thanks.

And promptly choked.

“That’s not bourbon,” he said when the tears cleared from his eyes.

“It’s scotch.” Her grin was unrepentant. “European whiskey.”

“It’s _shit_.” He laughed, sitting across from her.

“Merlin, you’re an asshole.” But she laughed too. “If you’re not going back to America, best to get used to it.”

“Hm.” He swirled the glass in his hand, absently casting a charm to keep the liquid from spilling over. He hadn’t made much headway in testing his magic since he awoke--small spells here and there--but this one was an old standby.

“Are you? Going back?”

Percival downed what little was left, noticeably smoother now, and leaned forward to pour another.

“It’s an acquired taste,” Margaret said, hiding a smile in her own glass.

“I don’t know what to do.” He ran a hand down his face. “This isn’t exactly how I thought my life would end up.”

“Really? Crawling back to me in an act of humility is _almost exactly_ how I thought you would end up.” She seemed to unspool in her chair. “But you are, if nothing else, the consummate lawman. When was the last time you remember walking around without some form of government ID?”

“Too long.”

She reached across the space to pat his knee. “You’ll figure it out.”

“You ended up happier here, Maggie, didn’t you?”

“Are you asking to assuage your guilt?” She smiled, cold and distant. “I’m happy. It doesn’t make what you and Daddy did any less horrible.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he admitted softly, “I’m only wondering what it would have done to you, staying in America with Dad, in Congress.”

“What it did to you.”

He scoffed, imagining Margaret behind his desk, surrounded by grey instead of green, with his humourless expression. “Yes, exactly.”

“Still, I hardly had a choice. That’s the point.” She set her glass aside. “Do you think...Daddy died because I left?”

“I think he died because he had one too many of these before he went to the stables,” Percival said, lifting his drink. “Would that bother you?

“Yes. I pretend it doesn't for Élodie and my own sanity.” Margaret was having some kind of inner debate with herself, he could tell. “I was going to write to him about Apolline. An olive branch, I thought. Then I got word, from Sera, about his passing.”

“I’m sorry I never wrote.” Percival didn’t comment on _how_ the President knew to contact Margaret. He thought it more a testament to Picquery’s secret keeping than her wide reach. He...could have contacted his sister, had he the desire. “I think he would have come around, if he were still with us.”

Margaret bit her lip to keep from laughing, though a small chuckle still managed to escape. “Why are you lying to me?”

“I've watched people outside the law lie to themselves for years. Figured there must be something to it.”

“You want honesty?” She raised an eyebrow. “It took a war and a family feud and,” here, her eyes met his, “everything that happened to you to get here, but...I’m glad things are the way they are. And, _honestly_ , I think we're in the midst of another war. Best take your scrap of happiness where you can."

He knew where her thoughts were. She had talked more about Credence Barebone than even her own daughter, his _niece_ , for Merlin’s sake, in their short time together, and he wondered at her officiousness. Beyond using Credence as a resource to find him, she had no obligation to be involved with the Barebones, no  _logical_ reason to help Credence any further, to help Modesty.

But that was Margaret--give her an inch, and she’d take ten miles, for better or worse.

Or perhaps Credence simply had that effect on everyone he met.

"That window’s closed, Maggie." He moved to stand by the fire ignoring the cutting look she shot him. "I'll be all right, I promise. I'm happy."

* * *

Credence slept in the small space Newt had made for him, surrounded by a smaller collection of books and an empty nest that had housed two rodent-like creatures before he had set sail back to New York. He knew there was room in Margaret and Élodie’s house, but what he needed was down here.

The Obscurus floated in front of him so much like smoke. He couldn’t sleep yet.

“Credence?” Newt stepped carefully to stand beside him. But then, Newt did everything carefully here. When Credence didn’t respond, he continued, “I heard there were a few incidents while you were away.”

“Less and less,” Credence said, with equal hope and suspicion. “Do you think it’s dying?”

“The Obscurus is so tied to your magic. I don't know that it can die.” Newt stood up straighter, the beginnings of a lecture in his tone. “Not without taking you. I have very few answers I'm afraid.”

“Does this,” he motioned to the Obscurus, “mean you can remove mine?”

“It had been my hope that a stable environment and a slow introduction to our world would decrease,” Newt tilted his head, “signs of upsets.”

“What do you hope now?”

“Given that the latter seems to have occurred somewhat without instruction, I think that entrenching yourself amongst wizarding folk is still a solid plan.”

“Not isolating myself, you mean?”

“Exactly.” The corner of Newt’s mouth lifted into a smile. “I live a very solitary life, Credence. But you need to _see_ magic, experience it as something positive or normal at the very least. I must say, your adventure with Missus Graves may have proved more helpful in this than we can measure.” He turned his back to the Obscurus, edging it out of Credence’s line of sight. “We can stay longer, if you’d like--I know I’d love to speak to Élodie more--but it would be my recommendation to get you to a place where you’ll...settle.”

“I want it out _before_ London,” Credence said, in a rush, barely thinking to add, “please.”

Newt stared at his shoes, the silence drawn out between them. “Can I ask why you want this?”

“I felt what it was like without it, just for a moment. It's just...one less thing to worry about.” He told him. “Besides, if something happens to me here, I know there are people to look after her.”

A true answer (he may not know the people in the house well, but they _cared_ ). Just...not the one Newt wanted to hear, judging by the searching look on his face.

“It's your choice, Credence. I just...” Newt’s brows drew together. “There’s nothing _wrong_ with you, you know? The things done _to_ you, well--”

“You've said, Mister Scamander.” And added, more sincerely, “Thank you.”

* * *

Percival tried with some difficulty to ignore the way Newt broke away from his huddle with Élodie and Margaret in the corner the moment he entered the kitchen.

“Morning.” He nodded, frowning at the glass of juice his sister placed in front of him. “You don't have coffee.”

“This is France, so...not good coffee.”

Percival's frown deepened.

A flurry of motion to his left distracted him as Modesty and Apolline climbed out of Newt’s suitcase, followed a moment later by Credence. With his longer hair and dressed in blues and greens--borrowed from Newt, if Percival had to guess--he looked...lighter.

“Mama, Mama,” Apolline tugged at Élodie’s sleeve.  “ _Tu viens_? Come see.”

“ _Un instant. Laves-toi les mains_ ,” Élodie said, attention unwavering from the stove top.

“I've got her.” Margaret lifted the girl to the crook of her elbow, a series of giggles following her upward arch. “Credence, would you like some eggs?”

“Please.” Credence pulled out the seat next to Percival, who went absolutely still when Credence's foot caught the back of his ankle quite by accident as he sat. Somehow it stayed there, under the table in the slow as molasses space between bites, and by the time Credence finished his meal and wandered back outside Percival wondered how they weren't soldered together at the joints.

Apolline returned, drifting to Percival's elbow with a seriousness unwarranted on a two year old's face. “ _Jus_.”

“Please.” Margaret fell into Credence’s vacant spot and seemed to have no trouble keeping her feet away from his own.

“ _Jus, s’il te plait_.”

Percival slid the glass across the table to his niece's tiny grasping hands watching with morbid fascination as she brought the large thing to her lips.

“Have you actually _spoken_ to Credence?” Margaret sounded more worried than disapproving. He straightened, trying not to let the same worry claw at him.

“Not today,” he hedged.  In truth, he hadn't had a real conversation with Credence since they'd arrived, more occupied with his sister and himself.

“Newt says he's planning on going through with it, the Obscurus removal.” Margaret lowered her voice, but it didn't stop the sharp spike of fear. “I was hoping you'd...speak with him. If Mister Scamander were being honest, I think he would too.”

“You've spent more time with him. You talk to him.” He knew it was petulant the moment it came out of his mouth, and had he not, the look on his sister's face would have told him as much.

“It's none of my business,” she said, choosing not to taunt him for now.

“It's not mine either,” and it was true, much as he wished it weren't. “Why do you care so much?”

“I think I may have said something to scare him into action.” She stared at her hands guilty. “Élodie said...look, will you just talk to him?” she snapped, frustrated at last. “He wrote to you, _beautiful_ letters, and saved you from a dark wizard, and can still stand to be in the same room with you after knowing you for ten minutes. The least you can do is try to talk him out of a rash decision.”

 _This coming from the queen of rash decisions_ , he didn't say because he was in a room with her wife, who became a terror when angered, and Percival was an intelligent man. Instead, he stood, charming away the spill Apolline had inevitably caused, and left the house.

* * *

“How do two people manage _all_ of this?” Credence asked when Percival joined him to gaze out across the hills.

Percival laughed. “Magic?”

“Oh...yes.” Credence turned only his eyes to peek at the man beside him.

Percival Graves looked very strange out of his suit. Credence had thought so the first time he had seen him under the influence of Grindelwald’s spell, with his sleeves rolled up, his hair soft and loose. It was the same now, in a white cable knit sweater that looked just a little too big for him. Maybe it belonged to one of the neighbors...it certainly wouldn't fit Margaret, and he couldn't picture Élodie in anything other than a dress.

It wasn't a _bad_ look. But he didn't imagine much could look bad on Mister Graves.

“It _is_ beautiful,” Percival nodded, and the days spent with Miss Goldstein startled Credence into believing his thoughts were on display before he remembered the vineyard.

“I prefer apples.”

He didn't know when he had learned this, perhaps a side effect of being inside someone else's head, but Credence found it was not hard work at all to leave Mister Graves speechless.

“Still excited to learn magic, knowing it's mostly used for heating drinks and...well, farming?”  Percival motioned to the vines, seeming to finally find his tongue.

“Surely not.” Credence smothered a smile.

“No.” Percival nodded slowly. “There are the sorts of spells I used, on the job. Are you going to learn those as well?”

Credence tried to suppress his shudder the way he had a smile with less success.

“The Obscurus...are you afraid of it?” Percival asked. Credence turned to stare at him openly. “Do you think it's still around because you're not so much excited as you are terrified?”

“That isn't why.” Credence stared at his hands, expecting the blackness would seep from his fingertips at any moment. “I mean, I’m afraid of hurting people, of being hurt again...but that's not why I want it gone.”

Credence had found it easier, sometimes, pretending to compose a letter in his head before speaking. He did this now, starting his confession from the middle. “It's the _other_ things that frighten me. Modesty and magic and this whole new place. What if I do mess up? Any of it. What if they try to take Modesty from me?” When Credence managed to look up, he found the other man’s surprise eased his own unsteady nerves. “And if _he_ gets out, if he’s still after it then...I want it gone.”

Percival must have sensed some of that nervousness because his expression shifted into something comforting and altogether foreign on that familiar face.

Percival placed a hand on Credence’s shoulder. Credence imagined it was meant to be comforting, but all he felt was an almost stifling heat between fabric and fingers, the quickening of his pulse, and so raised his own hand to cover it.

“I am afraid to ask what he did to you.” Percival lowered his eyes. “What may have been kept from the reports.”

“Only this.” Credence moved his hand to cup Percival's neck, his face, as Grindelwald had, and watched the color slowly rise to the other man’s face. But Percival was not as complacent as Credence so often had been, the hand on Credence’s shoulder drifting down to settle on his hip instead, gripping tightly, his thumb still against the skin of Credence’s stomach.

Credence brought his other hand up and inside him bloomed a tiny spark of understanding. There was something starkly intimate about the stroke of his thumbs against Percival’s pulse points, his fingertips along the bone of his cheeks.

Something powerful, too, when he was the one directing their play of movement. No wonder Grindelwald had done this, no wonder he seemed so in control.

 _Not anymore,_ he thought with a rather cruel twist of his lips. _You're gone, and I have everything._ He let his hands dip to the juncture of Percival's neck. **_Can_** _have everything._

Credence started as the corner of his shirt fell back into place with the falling of Percival’s hands. A moment later, he understood why.

"Modesty is looking for you," Élodie told him over her stack of empty baskets. It sounded like a lie, but Credence nodded once and left anyway.

He would be in London in a few weeks. Or dead, even, if Newt’s fears were to be believed. Credence had chased Percival Graves before, blindly and to no avail. Here he stood, eyes open and ready to do it all again...

_I would have never forgiven myself for it._

But to what end?

* * *

Élodie continued towards him, and Percival thought for a moment she would act as she had been this week past, in absolute silence or (probably insulting) French.

To his surprise, she stopped in front of him, dropping one of the baskets at his feet. “For the grapes.”

“You...don't do this with magic?” he asked, curiosity winning over astonishment for the moment as he picked up the basket and followed her into the vineyard proper.

“There are some Mags says we cannot,” Élodie explained in clipped tone. “She has a good nose.”

“Our mother worked with plants. Maggie was always better with them than I was. Not for lack of trying.”

“Try harder,” she instructed as though it were the easiest thing, and to her, perhaps it was. "I studied humans for three years to be closer to Margaret. Did you know?”

“I didn't.”

Élodie looked contemplative and Percival though she might elaborate further. Instead, she kneeled in front of one of the vines.

“Your sister is right, you know?”

“About what?” He watched her pick at the grapes and, when he was certain he understood her method, copied the movements

“Hm, _ton bonheur_.” She dragged a hand down the vine. “Your scrap of happiness. This is another war,” she said over her shoulder, “and only cowards come in through the windows.”

* * *

That night, fingers still stained and a little raw from the day's work, he managed a letter to Credence--his first, he realised--and though it was short, he hoped the sentiment would be understood.

_I’ve had quite a few letters to get to know you. I don’t know what you think of me._

* * *

The next morning, Percival need not have worried about whatever awkwardness would ensue at breakfast; Credence was waiting for him right outside his door, a page held in his hands, the writing there as familiar to Percival as his own.

Credence read:

“Your name is Percival Graves. You have a sister named Margaret, who you call Maggie. Your mother’s name was Hazel, and I think you loved her very much. You don’t like French whiskey or French coffee. You like open spaces and very little clutter. You can't take care of plants, but you're surprisingly good with children.”

“That's...a lot more than I expected,” Percival admitted when Credence took a pause for breath.

“I have more.” He motioned to the page in his hand.

Percival nodded once in a slow arc.

“I'll skip to the end.” Credence ducked his head, whatever courage he had used to get here now waning. “You brought me into your home, and I thought you were lonely, like me. I took a walk inside your mind, and I know that your idea of a perfect world had me in it.” Credence mentioned rooting around his thoughts so casually, and far from disconcerting Graves found it...comforting. Significant.

Important.

“I'm not so accomplished at letter writing, and I'm sorry for that.” Percival took the paper from Credence’s hand and, with this simple forward movement, drew his fingers forward to kiss the tip of each. It was meant to be light, exploratory, but the small noise of surprise had Percival’s mouth trailing farther down, flipping his hand to reach the center of Credence's palm.

Credence turned his fingers in to grasp at the spot below Percival's ear, pressing up in indication for him to move. Percival did so, stopping just short of Credence's lips, where he seemed to want him.

“Somehow, you became someone very precious to me.” He spoke so close to Credence's lips, they nearly brushed against the last word, carding his fingers idly through Credence's hair. “Nothing has changed that.”

“Oh, okay.” Credence shook his head, sounding dazed, and leaned forward to close the small space between their lips.

Percival found it curious and soft and altogether too short when Credence broke away to stare at his feet as a watchful Apolline opened the door to her room, led down the hall by a sleepier Modesty.

“Is breakfast ready, Credence?” she asked when she reached the place where they stood, perhaps a bit too close to deny any obvious accusations.

“Maybe?” Credence said, his voice a squeak. He coughed and continued a little more surely. “Probably.”

Modesty gave them both a flat look before disappearing behind the younger girl into the restroom, and finally, Percival let out a breath.

“What was my owl’s name?” Credence asked later, sitting at the table, concentrating in a most endearing way on cutting his pancakes into tiny bites.

“Excuse me?” Percival raised a brow.

“In your perfect world? What did I name my owl?”

Percival caught Credence’s ankle under the table and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CLIFFHANGER! Looks like you'll have to read on to chapter 6 to find out the name of Credence's owl! In seriousness, we’re in the home stretch of this fic (only chapter 6 and an epilogue!). Many thanks for following along and leaving such breathtakingly kind comments. It helps more than you know <3


	6. Chapter 6

_Newt,_  
_I know Clip isn’t connected to the Network so I thought to send this instead. Besides, her writing home reminded me that longform letter-writing is a practiced art._  
_Not that you’re home._  
_See? Art. Needs practice._  
_Hell, I miss you._  
_Queenie and Jacob are engaged, finally, but he won't get married without you, don't worry. A nice summer wedding, maybe? In England? What do you think? I hear they're okay with that sort of thing there._  
_All my love to Credence and Mister Graves and Margaret too if they’re still around._  
_Tina  
P.S.-Jacob would like to know what you thought of his candies. He’s also attached another box in case your reviews are positive._

* * *

**Attn: Newton Scamander  
** _Needed in London at once._  
_Theseus_

* * *

Percival turned the bottle over in his hand, examining the familiar label. "This one, please."

"What is it?" Modesty appeared at his elbow, only a head above the store countertop.

"Cologne." He let the man in front of him, a wizard as short of stature as Modesty but with steady hands, take the bottle back for packaging.

"Ma said perfumes should only be used in service. Otherwise they cover more sinful smells.” She rattled off the claim with a sigh. It was likely inappropriate then for Percival to recall one of Credence's later letters, though he thought it safe enough to quote a different verse.

"Ointment and perfume rejoice the heart."

"I wish you could have said _that_ to her face." She took the bottle from him, now wrapped in it's little box, and put it in the bag of treats she had accumulated throughout their morning shopping in the small village an hour’s walk from Margaret’s home.

Percival coughed, knowing he was the last person to ask his next question, but the only one around to ask it. "Would you like to talk about what happened to her?"

"She wasn't my _real_ mother," Modesty said, and Percival did not fail to notice this was more of an evasion than an answer. "I'll bet my real mother was a witch, like you." She pulled a Chocolate Cauldron from the top of her pile and examined it thoughtfully. "I helped make some of your potions, you know?"

"Did you?" This was news to Percival. _Surprising_ news.

"It's like making medicine. We had to do it at the orphanage a bit." She put the chocolate back in her bag, jostling the items around until they settled to her liking. "I think I might be good at it when I grow up."

"That's a difficult profession.” He tried for delicacy. “For you, especially.”

“Hard work and charity is the same everywhere.” She shrugged. “You can't just expect things to fall in your lap. I knew that with or without the church.”

She was so blindingly optimistic that he couldn't bear to tell her that it wasn't because of any of that, really. No, it was because she was undoubtedly a Squib, and wizards would purchase from a No-Maj store for the novelty of it before they let her give them something for free.

“Tell you what,” Percival ran a hand over his mouth, “if you finish school and promise to do everything by the books, I mean _legally_ by every standard,” and here he gave what he hoped was a lengthy enough pause for his words to have meaning, “I'll give you the money for whatever business you want to start.”

“Really?” Her hand tightened around the bag handle. “That'll be...years and years from now.”

“Do we have a deal?” Percival held out a hand, and Modesty shook it with a small smile.

"Oh good, she's in here, Credence." Margaret entered the shop followed closely by Credence.

"I was with Mister Graves the whole time." Modesty extracted her hand from his to reach in her bag again. She brandished the clear blue bottle cased in black. "We bought perfume."

"Cologne," Percival corrected quietly and without malice.

"Fleetwood's?" Margaret took the parcel, examining it with an upturned lip. "Percy, you snob."

"What's vetiver?" Credence was leaning over to examine the back of the bottle with her.

"It's a plant, native to India." Margaret threw the bottle to Percival, who caught it mid-flight. "It smells like patchouli left in a riverbank to drown."

"It does not, _and_ it's the cheapest thing in this line."

Credence made a considering noise. Percival raised an eyebrow in his direction.

"I don't think you smell like patchouli, Mister Graves."

That letter came back to him, the more...inappropriate one, and Percival didn't feel so bad thinking on it this moment.

_Your oils have a pleasing fragrance, Your name is like purified oil; Therefore the maidens love you._

"Thank you, Credence."

* * *

“Theseus is your brother?”

“Yes,” Newt ran a hand over his brow, “and if he bothered with sending an owl it must have been for something important.”

Credence examined the short line of text, searching for anything he may have missed. _Needed in London at once._ Demanding, yes, but how important could it be if his brother couldn’t be bothered to write what he was needed _for_?

“If you’re insistent upon this path, we’ll have to do so soon.” Newt took the letter back, folding it and pressing it to his breast, where Pickett grabbed at it with small, greedy hands.

“Why not tonight?”

By the strain of Newt’s jaw, it was obvious that he held his teeth tightly together. “All right, I’ll just grab--”

“We don’t need anyone.”

“ _I’ll_ let you know what I need,” Newt spoke firmly, his smile wan. “This is highly dangerous, Credence, and I will need assistance.”

Credence bit his lip. If anything went wrong, he didn’t want them to see anything.

“Missus Margaret, please.”

“She’ll do.”

* * *

“I will need absolute quiet, please.”

Credence lay on his small cot, arms held tightly to his side. Margaret looked ready to careen over in her chair, eyes wide and darting from Newt’s steady hands to her own tapping fingers.

“And stillness, _please_ , Margaret.”

Margaret paused the drumming of her hands.

Newt lifted his arms, and Credence felt an almost painful lightness start at the tips of his fingers and travel up through his elbows, his shoulders, his neck...

It was at his mouth that it happened; a low churning he could feel before he realised the other two in the room could hear it as well. The familiar darkness that was, at this moment, out of his control, half split between his body and Newt’s tenuous grasp.

“It knows you're trying to get rid of it.” Newt’s voice was strained. Focused entirely as he was on the blotted figure of the Obscurus, it took Credence a moment to realise Newt was no longer addressing him. “We’ll need to put him in stasis while I deal with this.”

“ _Fusus Habitus_ ,” Credence heard Margaret’s voice, clear and stable despite her earlier demeanor. Credence felt…

Nothing. No change.

“Try again,” Newt sounded slightly alarmed, wand moving in slow circles, light in the inky blackness. Beyond him, Credence could make out the familiar roar of the Nundu.

Margaret tried again, wordless, and again, eventually looking to Newt who was paying her no attention at all. Still, the darkness spread, and Credence felt it crawling back down his body, knew the breaking of his skin that would follow.

“What about the other one?” He forced past his lips. “The one Grindelwald cast on Mister Graves?”

Margaret caught on at once, and she answered, seemingly desperate to help in some way. “I know it in theory. In practice, I’m--”

“I trust you.”

Margaret smiled fondly in the face of everything or perhaps, Credence considered, because of it. “Famous last words.”

Margaret raised her wand, a lash against the dark.

“ _Scitis Menti.”_

* * *

Credence woke up with a pressure on his chest and a piece of paper shoved under his nose.

"It came! Look!” Modesty’s voice was overloud, but the waving of the paper explained the pain above his ribs.

“You’re crushing me.” He attempted to sit in the bed, dislodging her arms from his chest in the process.

“Sorry.” She grinned, undeterred, and finally Credence took the letter.

“We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all…,” Credence trailed off, mouthing the rest of the words silently. “That’s wonderful news.”

“Hurry up and get dressed!” She took the letter back and was halfway to the door before he could rub the sleep from his eyes. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

Credence did as he was told, moving from underneath the covers to get his bearings. There was no saying why he felt tense in his own room, but the painted picture above the bed, the familiar cream walls, the high windows that let in so much light, did nothing to quell his feeling of unease.

In the kitchen, Percival was ripping apart their stove with his hands in an admittedly _not_ very wizardly display of masculinity. Standing between the open doorway to the kitchen and the table where Modesty was already tucking into a stack of pancakes, Credence found he didn’t mind his method.

"Told you she had a chance." Percival stood when he finally noticed Credence, turning the knobs of the sink with his elbows and passing his hands under the stream of water. There was a certain lightness to his tone, unfamiliar to Credence. He felt a surge of panic he couldn’t explain. He found his chair at the table, sitting with a grateful exhale of breath. “Something wrong?”

“I feel very tired.”

Modesty leaned over her half-eaten meal, resting the back of her hand on Credence’s brow and said, very seriously, “ _Finite Incantatem_.”

Credence pulled back, startled. “What?”

“She said she's finished her breakfast. I'm going to walk her to the Bakers’.” Percival motioned to the door, and Modesty slid from her chair obediently, grabbing a bag hanging off the back of it. “Hogwarts in September or no, she has school _today_.”

Credence rubbed his temples and focused on his own plate, hoping to quell the sharp pain in his head as the door shut behind his back. Before he could think of where to start on his breakfast, a tapping at the window drew his attention.

A large, dark grey owl with bright orange, almost yellow eyes, was perched on the windowsill above the dismantled stove. Credence stood to raise the glass, maneuvering quickly to let the bird fly beneath his arm and to the table, where he deposited a scrap of paper on top of the letters there, Modesty’s Hogwarts invitation included.

“We already have the mail…” Credence sat back down and picked up the paper. The writing was stretched out and blurred, as though it’d been written underwater.

He shook his head, placing it aside and picked up a strip of bacon instead. “Sorry for the trouble…” His eyebrows drew together, mind reaching for a name just beyond his grasp.

“If you’re wondering what your owl’s name is,” Percival said from the door, “it’s Peppermint.”

Beyond his shoulders lay a sea of white, and Credence felt a shift, his headache dissolving like candy floss. The tightness that had been in his stomach since he woke disappated.

“...This isn't real.”

Credence looked around the kitchen, its walls more opaque now that he took the time to stare for longer than a moment. Percival sat in front of him and reached out to stroke Peppermint in the space above her beak. “Either you're much better at this than I was or my sister's wandwork is very bad.”

“She doesn't like this.” Credence bit his lip, remembering what little she had said about her own experience with the spell.

“Messing with people's minds. Dangerous stuff.” He pulled his hand away from the owl, and she flew back to the space where the window had been, disappearing into nothing. “Maggie tried to cancel it a few different ways, but….” He shrugged, and Credence noticed, then, the bruising down his arms, the scratches on his face.

“You’re hurt.” Credence moved to the other side of the table to get a closer look, lifting his arm to his face to examine it more closely

“You three were causing a ruckus.” Percival picked through the letters on the table with his free hand, seemingly unaffected. “Hogwarts, huh? Scamander’s convinced you that's the best school?”

“Are you avoiding the subject because it’s bad?” Credence ran his hand along the other man’s arm until his fingers clasped his wrist. “Are you in here, with me, because you had to be put...in stasis too?”

Percival finally looked at Credence, relaxed rather than apprehensive, and this more than anything let Credence release the breath he had been holding.

“I’m here because you and I are alike in that we prefer our fantasies to whatever work it would take to make them a reality.”

Credence knelt beside Percival's chair, bringing them eye level to one another. Around them, more of the brilliant white seeped in through the walls, casting a glow across the table. “I don’t understand.”

“We can have all of this. The house, the owl, the damned apple farm.” He brandished the letter. “Do you want Modesty to learn magic?”

“She seems very interested…”

“Then teach her. There are no rules that say a Squib can't learn.” He stared ahead, jaw set. “We can have it all. It’s just…”

“Difficult?” Credence offered.

He laughed. “Impractical. I’m unused to wanting impractical things.”

Credence considered his own short morning. “I know that...important things come with a certain degree of hard work,” he started slowly. “But I can’t water a plant every day only to watch someone pull it away from the windowsill.”

Percival steepled his fingers in front of him, dragging Credence’s hand along with him. Credence didn’t know how long they stayed like that; Percival staring straight ahead, Credence kneeling by his chair watching him. Eventually he stood, pressing his hand to Credence’s like an offering.

“I never considered myself work-shy.”

“I think I remember how this part goes,” Credence said, pressing closely to Percival’s side, more close than he needed to certainly.

Percival wrapped an arm around his waist, and they disappeared as the white closed in around them.

* * *

Credence woke up with a pressure on his hand and held his breath before bringing his eyes to meet the reason why.

Margaret sat in a chair, one arm hanging loosely by her side, the other outstretched towards the bed, hand gripped tightly to Credence’s own. He had experienced this feeling of lightness through his muscles only twice, and it almost dizzied him to feel it now.

So he was truly awake. The Obscurus was gone.

He released his breath.

Credence slipped his hand from Margaret's grip and slid from under the mound of quilts. He was in the guest room that Percival had been occupying, and he tiptoed over several empty pallets on the floor, where the others seemed to have made camp for the night, on his way to the window. A wash of pale covered the green hills. What he thought was the sun--

"Good morning," Margaret said behind him, cut off by her own yawn.

"It's _snowing_...." Credence stared across the white landscape in wonder, trying to pick out what landmarks he had learned through his short stay.

"Yes, Newt says uncontrolled, concentrated bursts of magic can cause fluctuations in the weather." She didn’t call him Mister Scamander, he noted. There was something about sharing in life threatening situations, if he had to guess. "So...first snow come early." She joined him by the window, short curls standing ridiculously straight on one side. "And it looks like everyone decided to start the fun without us."

She was right. In front of the cottage below, two bundled figures that had to be Apolline and Modesty were building a wall of snow, and quite a ways behind them, Élodie and Percival were knelt at the edge of the vines.

"Will the grapes be all right?" He turned, worried and a little ashamed he hadn’t asked Newt more about the repercussions.

Margaret chuckled, and he felt his shoulders relax. "These grapes aren’t exactly _normal_. Have you ever seen any fruit grow like that in the dead of winter? Don’t worry, they’re only pruning the ones that can’t be touched by magic." She pulled him into a short half-hug that left him questioning how long he had been asleep. Credence reached under her, patting her back twice before she let go with an overloud sniff. “I’m going to go find some warmer clothes before I join them.”

When Credence braved the mirror, he found himself not faring much better. His own hair reached his shoulders by now, and as inexpertly as Margaret had cut it on their trip to New York, leaving him with more layers than he had ever seen, he was loathe to cut it short again. He ran a hand under the tap in the washroom, then a few times through his hair and found it settled with only a bit of coaxing.

Downstairs, Newt sat in the kitchen, looking up when Credence entered. Despite his rather haggard visage, he managed a smile.

“Margaret said you were awake. How do you feel?”

Credence remembered waking up to that question, in that voice for weeks, after the MACUSA all but killed him. Had it not been for the Obscurus…

He busied his hands making tea the way he'd seen Newt do. It took a while to find everything in Margaret and Élodie’s kitchen, but Newt seemed happy to wait, and the silence between them did as much to calm him as it had before in his earliest days of recovery.

Newt Scamander had done quite a lot for him.

“I feel like someone’s just iron pressed my lungs,” Credence managed, handing Newt a cup. “But...I’m breathing easier. Are you all right, Mister Scamander?”

“All the better for seeing you up and walking about, Credence,” Newt said mostly to his cup. “I’m considering extending our stay until Christmas, if you’d like.”

“I thought we had to be in London...for your brother.”

“I’m sure whatever it is can wait,” Newt said, easily, and Credence narrowed his eyes. If pressed, Credence could claim to be practiced at reading others--he had to be, avoiding the odd shove on the sidewalk or learning to listen early for that perilous note in Ma’s voice before something went _wrong_. He could see, now, that Newt was more nervous than he was willing to admit.

He looked at the still steaming mug and the bags under his friend’s eyes. “We can leave tomorrow. I don’t mind.”

“Are you certain?”

“You’ve done so much for me. This is the least I can do for you.” Credence pulled at a piece of his hair to stave off further embarrassment. “How is the Obscurus?”

At this, Newt managed a full grin. “Surprisingly stable!”

“May I...see it?”

Newt stood with his cup and made his way to the suitcase. It wasn't until he was climbing in it that Credence caught the fond look on the other man's face. “I think it would enjoy that.”

Credence followed at a more sedate pace, still sleepy and unused to the lightness in his body. He passed Newt, who was pulling out stores of food for eager mouths, and stepped further in, seeking out the icy place that housed Newt’s only Obscurus.

There were two now. He knew his at once.

“You have a friend,” he said, choking on the last word. Both clouds of inky smoke reacted to his voice, the larger, darker of the two swimming in small circles that almost hypnotized him.

“I'm going to England to study magic.” He straightened, feeling a rush of relief and a sudden heaviness all at once. “I have so much more to learn,” he whispered, breath frosting the air.

“When I go, I won't make another,” he looked between the two Beings shrouded in clear liquid, “you. But I'll take care of myself, I promise.”

He didn't know if this would satisfy the creature that he had unintentionally made, the creature he had ripped from himself, but the more he spoke, the more it stilled. He liked to think some part of it understood.

“Thank you...for trying to take care of me.”

* * *

Percival removed his coat just inside the door, raising a hand to light the fire in the next room, while Apolline, not bothering to remove any of her sodden clothes, bounced off the side of his leg as she ran under his arm and towards the warmth. They had stayed outside until the soft flakes gave way to icy pellets at which point Élodie had rounded them all up with the promise of cocoa.

Percival was attempting to work Apolline from the wool around her shoulders when the others entered the room.

“You can go to the village again tomorrow morning,” Credence spoke quietly to Modesty as he most often did. “I'll pack your things for you while you're away.”

“You're leaving so soon?” Margaret controlled her expression admirably, though not the disbelief in her tone. Percival hid his own reaction, hanging Apolline's coat in front of the fire. “Why the rush?”

“I'm afraid the fault lies with me.” Newt raised his voice. “Business with the Ministry, though I'm not sure of the specifics. I'll try to have the head of my Department send a letter off to the French Ministry, regarding your marriage, as quick as I'm able, of course.”

“We would appreciate it.” Margaret turned her smile from him to Credence. “As for _you_.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “You'll always have a room here. Modesty too.”

The Goldsteins had said much the same when they left New York. Where once Credence had a home he wanted no part of, he was quickly gaining one on every continent.

“Thank you, Missus Margaret.” Credence swiped at his eyes. Margaret dropped her hand, looking a little dew-eyed herself.

“Thank _you_.” She thumbed to the corner of the room in his direction. “Loathe as I am to be around him much of the time, you helped me save my brother's life. That's not a small thing.”

Credence looked in Modesty's direction. “No, it isn't.”

Margaret grinned. “Quite an adventure.”

“Cocoa?” Élodie poked her head around the doorframe, eyebrows drawing together when no one immediately answered. “No one is thirsty? We can have lunch first--”

“No!” Modesty whipped around, cheeks rosy from the wind outside and the heat in front of her. She seemed to realise how quiet the room was around her and followed with a softer, “Please.”

“All right, all right,” Élodie held her hands up in mock surrender. Margaret laughed. “Come on, children, help me carry them.”

Percival waited until Credence was alone by the fire to approach him. “Have you decided what you want to do in London?” Credence didn't seem to know how to react in the face of his indifference and so only nodded. But then hadn’t Percival promised to work as well?

“And? Scamander’s field?” He guessed. “Or something less specific? You have a fine disposition for Mediwizardry.”

Credence smiled, obviously pleased. “More specific, actually. I want to study Beings. The laws, maybe?”

That made sense to Percival who had been an Auror and had the Law (capital L) burned into his bones. Serving justice for all of wizardkind. It did however surprise him to think of Credence in any position similar.

But then the MACUSA had blasted him--a Being--out of the sky, according to the report he had read so he doubted their fields would be entirely similar at all.

“Do you know what you'll do?”

Percival attempted to compose himself against the suddenly _lost_ sensation that Credence's words evoked, feeling an odd sort of relief when Modesty appeared at his elbow with two steaming mugs. “I’ve promised your sister a business partner if she finishes school.”

Credence stared between the two of them. “Oh?”

“I’ll call it Barebone’s Obscure Homebrews for a Modest Price.” Modesty offered them the mugs.

“Clever.” Percival took his with a raised brow. If there was one good thing she had picked up from that dreadful church, he thought, it was the art of advertisement.

“I'll write once we land.” Credence drank from his mug, turning completely to the fire. Percival suspected the red on his cheeks could only partly be attributed to the heat. “You like my letters.”

Percival grinned, finishing his drink in silence. He had no room, after all, to deny that.

* * *

Percival was a light sleeper, but it was barely dark when the door to his room opened that night. The person entering had to know he was wide awake. He cracked open an eye, watching Credence close it softly behind him, and sat up as he moved towards the bed.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Credence said, rubbing the tops of his palms against one another. “I didn’t think I would feel alone after. That is, I didn’t _know_ what was there, but there was always something, and now...there isn’t.”

Percival stared at him for a long moment. This had all the potential to lead to uncomfortable and not unexpected places.

“You can sleep in here. It seemed to suit you well after the spell.” Percival turned back the corner of his sheets before he could think too much. “No funny business, I promise,” he added and thought he heard Credence mumble something that sounded remarkably like ‘What’s the point?’ as he slipped under the now-familiar pile of pink and yellow quilts. “What was that?”

“I only said,” Credence sounded the closest to frustrated Percival had ever heard, “if I'm leaving tomorrow, I had the thought that maybe I should be kissing you as much as I could tonight.” He drew back, his hair spread over the other pillow a safe distance away, and looked suddenly contrite. “I mean, If you'd like that.”

Percival swallowed. “I would like that very much.” He felt as though his words were leaving his mouth rapid-fire compared to the snail’s pace of his brain. “But Credence--”

Credence, too, obviously felt things had gone on too slowly for long enough, for he took Percival’s first words as all the permission he needed, fingertips reaching out to grip Percival’s chin, pulling his face down and forward in an odd mirror of the previous morning’s kiss.

And Percival remembered this, though Credence was a bit more enthusiastic under cover of darkness. What Credence lacked in skill he made up for in strength of purpose, soft fingers gripping unsteadily at his shoulders, softer tongue pressing tenaciously against Percival’s lips.

Percival grabbed his hips in an effort to still him, but Credence used the movement as leverage, pushing his hands up to tangle in Percival’s hair and breaking away with a breathy moan. Percival’s grip loosened independently of his brain, his thoughts focused on that singular noise and the heat of his bare upper body, the friction where Credence rubbed against it with his own. Percival dropped his head, gasping into the curve of Credence’s throat. He had interrogated hardened criminals, been bested by only the worst of them, and now lay helpless under hands that had yet to weave the simplest spells.

“Wait, Credence,” Percival finally managed, his voice a heated rasp, unrecognizable to his ears. “Have you ever…?” A hot hand trailed, more surely now, down the front of his chest and stomach, two long fingers insinuating themselves into the waistband of his pajamas. Percival’s brain staggered to its feet, one hand moving around to rest against Credence’s lower back and the other circling around his wrist, tugging upward and stopping its downward track. “ _Okay, up._ Do you know what you're doing?”

“I've read books.” Credence withdrew his fingers by inches, locking them with Percival’s, expression a mixture of hope and mild embarrassment. “Did you know that inversion is fairly common among dragons and large mammals?”

If it weren't for the flat note in Credence's voice, that self deprecation that sat in the hunch of his shoulders less often these days, Percival would think he was being serious.

“No, I didn’t.” Percival lifted Credence’s chin, kissing the corner of his mouth to placate him. “Mister Scamander’s books aren’t exactly a wealth of knowledge. If you have any questions, I’ll happily--”

“I'm leaving, Mister Graves,” Credence cut him off quietly, stricken.

"I know,” Percival said, even quieter, as though ending what Credence had begun had smothered the sound in the room. “And you can't even call me by my name.”

“I can. Percival.” Credence drew back, moving their joined hands, fidgety once again, to rest on Percival’s side. “Missus Margaret calls you Percy. I could--”

“Percival is fine.” Percival shifted away, all too aware of the erection hanging awkward and heavy between his legs.

“Everyone has been tripping over themselves to make sure I have a choice in what I do or don’t do.” Credence removed his fingers from Percival’s hair, where they had been playing idly. “Why is this so different?”

“Because it's hardly a choice where the outcome is restricted to _just you,_ is it?” Percival raised a brow.

Credence moved to lay on his back, eyes sliding to find Percival’s, then away. “I suppose not. What about your first time? Was _it_ awful?”

“A little,” Percival admitted. “I was nineteen, hardly younger than you. Mostly it was...thorough.”

“But you don't regret it?”

He searched Credence's face for any sign of jealousy and spoke only when he found none. “No.”

“Then why do you think I will?”

“Regret is maybe not the word I'd choose.” Percival turned a serious gaze on him. “Credence, you're _leaving_. That’s not a good enough reason to rush into something.”

Credence shifted closer, and Percival lifted an arm, accepting him to his chest with equanimity  "I could--"

"Don't even say it," Percival cut him off. He had been having the same thoughts, watching Credence build a snowman with Modesty that morning.

_They could stay. Better, I could leave with them._

They were lovely, fantastical thoughts and voicing them would only make it harder to keep what promises of hard work they had made to one another. Staying would mean a life secluded from Newt Scamander's contacts, the chance at a magical life Credence desired. Leaving would mean saying goodbye to the family Percival had only just met.

_Do you know what you’ll do?_

And...Percival still had no idea what he wanted.

Judging by his next words, Credence's mind had wandered down a similar path towards the same bittersweet conclusion.

“Modesty is the only family I have left.” He shifted to look at him. “Are...Margaret and Élodie and Apolline it for you?”

“Yes, Father two years ago and Mother a little over ten now.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you think they would have liked me?”

Percival chuckled before he could stop himself. “I would like to say yes, but only because I want to avoid the face I know you'll make,” and Credence turned his face up to stare at him, lips turned down into a frown. “Yes, that one.”

Credence forced his expression into something more neutral. “Your mother seemed...welcoming.”

“Perfect day, remember? Not a normal one. I think my mind remembered her more fondly than she was.” Percival drifted a finger lightly up and down Credence’s spine. “Mama liked her plants and her horses. She wasn't unkind, just distant.”

Credence shifted up onto his elbow. “What happened to the horses?”

He raised his hand to run it through Credence’s hair, resting it at the base of his head where the strands were short and curled. "I'm changing my answer; Mama would have liked you.” Credence ducked his chin, though not enough to hide the pleased curve of his lips. "As for the horses, they’re with a second cousin in Delaware. They were my grandmothers. Margaret was supposed to take them--inherited through the female line, you see--but she left."

"For Europe to fight," Credence filled in.

"No,” Percival laughed, feeling a shade of the bitterness he always had after Maggie had left him to deal with Mama’s funeral arrangements. _This feeling,_ he thought, _this is why I have to stay here._ “Not to fight, she just felt she had to leave. She didn't want a Ministry job with Father. She wanted...anything else."

“What did you want? Or did you always want to be an…”

“Auror.”

“Yes, an Auror.”

Percival thought about this...and thought. There was a deep satisfaction he derived in being a part of the structure that upheld the foundation of his magical nation. Justice gave him purpose; it had nearly become a part of him.

“I want to study the law, too,” Credence said, though whether he had grown tired of waiting for a response or he simply felt it was something he needed to say, Percival couldn’t tell. “Not because it's good, but...it seems very bad from my side. I'd like to know why someone like me never got my letter, suppressing my magic or not. I'd like to know why I was attacked and used instead of helped,” and that, Percival thought, was all Newt Scamander. “I'd like to help Squibs, if I can.”

Percival imagined Credence, suited up, straight-back, and going toe-to-toe with the Wizengamot. “The last one won't make you very popular.”

“If there are two things I'm well versed in, it’s not being very popular and handing out pamphlets,” he said with a wry twist of his lips. “At least this time, I'll care about what's written on them.”

"I did care about it, my job." Percival curled Credence to his side. "But if you’re asking what I wanted before all that, if I thought I had some real choice? I’d probably have kept the horses."

* * *

_Three years_ , Credence mouthed the words as he folded Modesty’s belongings. Soft, light-coloured clothes she never would have been allowed at Ma’s. _Three years_.

The words repeated in his head like a prayer. It wasn't the time he’d be gone, he couldn’t put a number to that yet. Three was the number of years that Élodie and Margaret had claimed to be apart before meeting again on the battlefield...and they had only known one another for a week. The mantra was meant to inspire. After all, if _they_ had made it...

Part of his mind used this as a calming focus. The other parts were bitterly reasoning that he had waited long enough. Credence had woken cold, and he didn’t have to feel around to know he was alone. He wondered what would have happened had he cried the night before, begged, told Percival all the things he hadn't written in his letters?

But Percival had asked him to stop, and...Credence wasn't like Grindelwald, after all, which he supposed he could count among his better qualities.

He wandered down the hallway, the house eerily quiet with the others in the village and Newt preparing his creatures for travel.

“Mister Graves?” Credence peeked into the kitchen and moved further in when he found it empty. “...Percival?”

His eyes lit on a figure outside, and he made his way to the window to get a clearer view. Percival was standing with his back to the house past the vines, on the hill overlooking the Delacours’ manor. The black coat was barely dusted with snow, but then, Credence reasoned, with _magic_ who knew how long the man had been standing out there.

Credence reached to his pocket where Percival’s wand lay since the day Margaret had gifted it to him, thrumming not only with its own magical properties, but with the sort of invisible power one bestows upon a lucky charm. It had worked as a kind of grounding device, at first, and a strange validation later. He was magic, he _could_ cast spells, and Percival’s wand had let him use it.

But it wasn’t his, he thought, grabbing his coat and stepping out into the snow. He had rolled the wand between his palms for long minutes before going upstairs the night before, trying to think of a way to keep this one while seeking out his own. In the end, it was only an attempt to keep its owner, to keep _Percival_. How hypocritical when he was the one leaving.

 _Three years_ , he chanted, _three years_.

Credence stopped a few feet away, close to the vines Élodie and Percival had covered. “I can’t wait to see the grapes in spring.”

Percival started, standing straighter and pressing his hands farther down into his pockets. Credence took a step closer, and as he thought, the air was warmer in the small circle around him, the snow falling in waves off of an invisible globe above his head. Credence kept to the outside, stepping around the circle to face him, pulling out Percival’s wand in the process.

“I came to give you this last night, Mister Gr--Percival,” he caught himself. “Please talk to me.”

Percival’s face was lacking in all the warmth his charm provided. Perhaps it had yet to occur to him, what Credence had been repeating all morning. He took a step forward, slipping slightly on a patch of frost. Percival’s hands shot out, catching him by the elbows with more force than Credence thought was necessary. He was going to make a comment about the very subject, but the look on Percival's face dried up the words in his throat. That amount of distress couldn't be over a small spill on the ice.

Credence took a more careful step forward, gripping Percival’s upper arms with equal ferocity. “I'll come back you know.”

 _Three years,_ he thought, and this time it overwhelmed the other anxious fears gripping his mind. He had survived Mary Lou and Grindelwald and the Obscurus and his first stumbling attempts at romance. To have a shot at real happiness and not take it seemed a disservice to every promise he had made to himself. So, yes, he would come back.

He couldn’t make out Percival’s expression as he dove in quickly to kiss him, but the larger part of Credence’s brain stopped caring very much as he sighed into his mouth, arms winding down and pulling them tightly together. He had meant it when he said he wanted to kiss him as much as possible; he had a good inch on Percival when they stood on even ground like this, and he intended to use it to his advantage. Percival ran his fingers along Credence’s arm until he reached his left hand and plucked the wand from it.

“Thank you for keeping it for me.” Percival pulled away to stare at the object, his voice the same raspy tone that had tugged at something in Credence’s stomach the night before, and now, _now_ , his body was arching forward without his permission, both hands free to roam where they wished.

With some effort, Credence gently pushed Percival’s coat from his shoulders, heard it fall with a soft _thump_ somewhere behind him. Credence could feel the other man’s head turn as he dipped to bite at the space where shoulder met neck. He remembered how good it felt when Percival had breathed there. This close, Credence could smell the man’s cologne, _vetiver_ , he remembered. It smelled like fresh citrus and grass never allowed to grow in New York.

“What are you doing?”

“You said I could come to you with questions.” Credence worked his way up the column of Percival’s neck, stopping only to speak. This served a dual purpose as he was also now too embarrassed to look the other man in the eye. “I’ve thought about what you said, and I think you’re being unreasonably stubborn. You say your first time was thorough?” Percival shuddered when his lips reached the bottom of his ear. _Have to remember that_. “I want to be able to say _my_ first time was on a snowy hillside, beside a vineyard, overlooking a beautiful French manor."

Percival was silent and still. Credence knew his face was red, and not from the cold, could feel the weight of his words heat his cheeks and knew if he pulled away to look at Percival now, he would never catch his breath again.

He licked the shell of the other man’s ear instead and found himself staring at the sky a moment later, flat on his back in a swathe of dark wool, buffeted on both sides by unnaturally warm snow.

“Or we could go back inside if you like,” Credence offered weakly, now finding himself pinned and staring into Percival’s unwavering gaze. He didn’t particularly feel like moving. “You can do whatever you want.”

Percival raised a brow. “I think whatever I want is quite a bit more than what you’re prepared for.”

Credence arched his hips upwards, accidentally forcing Percival in a slow slide forward. He could feel his thick erection pressing prominently against the hollow of his stomach. “You really think so? I’ve been inside your head, remember?”

The corner of Percival’s lips curved upward into a half-smile. “You know, eventually that’s going to lose its shine.”

“...not today?”

Percival reached back, and this time, when he grabbed Credence’s hips, he parted his own legs above him, pushing down roughly and dragging a matching hardness slowly against his own. Credence opened his mouth to shout, managing only to pant softly before latching onto the corner of Percival’s jaw with his teeth.

“No.” Percival turned his face to meet his lips in a rough kiss. “Not today.”

“You said--”

“Forget what I said.”

Credence stared, enraptured at the sight of the throbbing vein in Percival’s neck. He considered his earlier assessment that he didn't know how this worked, but he _did_ know what felt good, and snaked a hand down, ignoring cumbersome buttons to stroke him beneath the fabric. He was rewarded with a soft moan from above as Percival threw his head back further. Credence followed with his mouth, resting his fingers under the fabric against Percival’s sides, and jerking his hips up to meet the space where his hand had been.

Credence ground his teeth together and forcibly pulled away from Percival's swollen lips, to stare at him. “I’m coming back.”

Percival stared back, breath slowing to something manageable before he pushed Credence back and crawled up his body. “I don’t intend for you to have to.”

Credence had no idea what that meant. It sounded...important, but he felt his mind go blissfully numb, kissing Percival’s wrist where it was planted close to his face, as Percival’s hips kept a languid, torturous pace above him. He felt the other man spread his legs somehow further still and when Credence had gathered his wits to tilt his chin down he saw that Percival had unbuttoned enough to expose his erection.

Credence reached out tentatively, looking up for permission. Percival nodded, seemingly unable to voice his consent, and Credence wrapped his fingers around the hard length. It was shorter than his, but thicker, with coarse black hair at the base. He gave it a few experimental tugs, sitting up and leaning over to examine it more closely.

“It’s very big,” he said, because he felt the other question on his mind, ‘ _How does it all fit?’_ may dampen the mood somewhat. Later, he assured himself. For now, Percival seemed content to let Credence explore with hands and teeth and tongue.

His fingers curled around the head of Percival’s penis, thumb sliding along the slit as he felt the other man’s thighs quiver around his. He narrowed his eyes, growing harder at the hitch in Percival’s breath.

“Credence,” Percival’s voice was strained beside Credence’s ear, one of his hands coming to wrap around Credence’s wrist to pull him gently away. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t allowed to touch anymore because, after a brief struggle with his own buttons, Percival was _touching him,_ and Credence’s vision swam with so much black that he had to force himself to realise he wasn’t flying apart this time.

 _Not flying apart_ , he told the anxious voice quieting in his head, _falling_.

Percival’s eyes seemed unable to focus on one thing, flitting from Credence’s face for only a moment, to the space above his shoulder, to his stomach. Credence’s hips bucked up, rolling his cock in Percival's hand. He reached forward. Clumsy, uncoordinated, inelegant strokes with his hand crushed between their groins as he pressed upwards to close his mouth over Percival’s.

Percival flattened his body against Credence's, thrusting hard, rhythm giving way to urgency until something shattered inside him, a crippling need, a crash of pleasure shorting out his brain. Percival stilled above him, eyes closed and jaw clenched so tight until his mouth fell open like he couldn't stop it, couldn’t help the guttural cry that broke from his throat. The entire picture was a narcotic Credence wished he could bottle like Percival’s cologne.

Percival slumped forward, a breath of warm laughter brushing across Credence’s ear as his arms came up to twine around his shoulders. Credence pressed his nose into Percival’s shoulder, bringing his own arms around the other man’s back and keeping his eyes fixed on the sky. The snow still fell in soft drifts, and the longer he looked, the more he felt as though he’d float up into it.

After he’d caught his breath, Credence attempted to speak. “That was…”

“Thorough?” Percival drew back, brow raised.

“Haha.” Credence rolled his eyes to keep from revealing any of the more serious, self-indulgent thoughts he actually had.

“I _am_ coming back,” he whispered, instead, into the curve of Percival’s neck. Percival bent down, held him tighter. After he reached London and bought an owl (and named her Peppermint), after he had a wand of his own and learned more spells about plants like the one Margaret had shown him, he could come back in the spring and keep the weeds from growing up. And between all those marvelous things he would write how he actually felt in letters, Credence thought as he stared again at the sky.

_Important, important, this is important._

* * *

"Apolline is done crying."

Margaret jumped at the sound of Élodie’s voice near her ear.

"Oh...good."

“Apolline is done crying because she is sleeping,” Élodie clarified, and Margaret bit back a laugh. Their daughter, too serious at two, had not understood why her new friends were leaving, but she had fierce, loud ideas about why they should not.

Élodie joined Margaret by the kitchen window, gazes turned out to where Percival was standing like some sort of grim statue. This is where he had been when they had left for the village station and where they had found him upon their return.

"He didn't go to the station to kiss him goodbye," Élodie said. She sounded as adorably petulant as Apolline when they had arrived home to find an empty house.

Margaret reached up on tiptoes to press her lips to Élodie’s temple. "Sometimes that doesn't happen."

"I know that,” she sounded offended. “I only thought that this time it might.”

As if he knew he were being spoken about, Percival turned to head back towards the house, and as he came closer, Margaret caught the faint smile on his face.

“Élodie, my love? Have you ever heard of the Peruvian Vipertooth?”


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to weatheredlaw for long conversations about these characters (up to and including the mysterious Theseus Scamander) and for pushing me through some difficult-to-write scenes. To Bal, too--an excellent writer who brought me into this whole business with a single fanvideo that wasn't even directed towards me--may we fandom-hop forever. To writingramblr who let me constantly complain about how difficult I found writing smut to be, LazyBaker, who I just complained to in general, and the other people I've met through this tiny fic (or reconnected with).
> 
> As always, this would not have been written at all without Liz who, apart from correcting my many commas, also dealt with _vocal_ overthinking about this fic and drew wonderful art of my new OCs in the meantime  <3

**ATTN: Graves Residence  
** _Not enough galleons for owl yet. Have room and full board! Miss you a lot. Love C &M.B. _

* * *

“At least he is eating.” Élodie fed the large postal owl on their dining room table a treat.

Margaret narrowed her eyes as Percival snatched the small scrap of paper from her hand, reading quickly and flipping it over as though searching for more. After a moment, his eyes narrowed too.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

Percival didn’t answer, as she expected, taking the letter upstairs to what had ostensibly become his room.

The next morning, Margaret prepared to send her response back, a longer series of yes and no questions that wouldn’t be too costly to send with a postal owl. Percival appeared at her elbow with a heavier envelope and a request to send his along as well.

“You’re not sending him money.” She felt her eyebrows raise to her hairline.

“It’s not money,” Percival said evenly, pressing the envelope into her hands. “It’s property that can be sold for money.”

Margaret wanted so badly to tease the straight line of his mouth into a frown, but she had spent all night debating how to tie her own account to the Barebones’ and had no space to judge.

“Use that bird,” Élodie pointed across the kitchen without looking up from her book at the table.

Margaret and Percival turned as one to stare at a dark grey owl perched just outside the window. He had been so quiet, Margaret had not noticed him. “I tamed him last night, for Credence. He is safe.”

Margaret saw some of Percival’s suspicion fade to gratefulness as he stepped across the kitchen towards the door.

“Did you do something nice for my brother?” Margaret sidled up to Élodie’s chair, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and playing with the long strands of hair that lay there.

“I did something nice for _Credence_. Your brother benefits only by design.” A muffled shout drew Margaret’s attention outside. “Also,” Élodie added smugly, “I trained it to bite men with hairy arms.”

* * *

_Percival,_  
_Thank you for your generosity, but Newt has set me up with a job that pays enough money to afford whatever Modesty and myself need. And now that Élodie has very thoughtfully lent me this owl, I'm sending back the deed for you to do whatever you wish with it._  
_As for my work, I'm to be a greeter of sorts for the Department Mister Scamander works in (though he seems to not be **in** the building very often)._  
_Not much else has happened except I have found that wands, as it turns out, are incredibly expensive for something so seemingly necessary. I should have conveniently forgotten to give yours back.  
Credence_

 _Credence,_  
_You're a Welcome Witch? Well, everyone has to start somewhere, and if you want to work at the Ministry..._  
_As to the issue of the land--while I trust your judgment I should point out that you **could** afford such a ludicrously expensive wand if you let me help. Maggie agrees. On the other hand, you could take this as a sign to learn that wandless is the way. Trust me, it serves you well in a pinch._  
_Percival  
P.S.-The owl’s name is Peppermint._

 _Percy,_  
_Welcome_ ****Wizard.  
_Tell Missus Margaret I appreciate her concern, as well as your own, and that's my last word on it._  
_As to wandless magic, my instructor says I am ‘pants’ at it which I take to mean as...not good. I don’t do well with the practice wand, either. I always did well with yours._  
_Credence_

 _Credence,_  
_I see by the use of my diminutive I've annoyed you--forgive me, Welcome Wizard, then. How is that?_  
_And I agree. You did very well with my wand.  
Percival_

_Percival,  
I put Modesty to bed, then I go to the Ministry entrance and see if Newt’s in his office. Sometimes I get to read a book or two, but usually I sit at a desk and-- _

“Hello, my name is Credence, Welcome to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, is there a particular place I can direct you? ...yes, I am American. No, madam, I don't work nights because I'm a vampire. No, you cannot keep that as a pet...well, you _should not_ , at least. I'm not sure...well, it doesn't look cancerous to me but you might want to get it looked at by a licenced Mediwitch or Mediwizard--”

 _It's never dull.  
_ _Credence_

* * *

_Credence,  
_ _Merry Christmas! Your first as a wizard! How does it feel? Thank you for the presents. At the rate you send letters, I needed a new quill, and I think Apolline loves Élodie’s big, floppy hat_ **_almost_ ** _as much as Élodie does. We’ve sent along your smaller gifts with Peppermint--_

Credence looked across the small apartment he shared with Modesty. She was surrounded by the scattered remains of Christmas crackers and wearing a beautiful red ribbon--a family heirloom Percival had written in the card it had arrived with. Credence’s own present--a packet of apple seeds and a wizard picture of men building a house into a recognizable shape--was stuffed under his pillow. He was trying very hard not to think about it.

 _Of course, you’ve already received your best one from Newt. Who’s going to beat a wand, hm? Larch is a_ **_wonderful_ ** _wood._

He had tried redwood, then pine, like Margaret’s, he recalled. Larch wood wands, Ollivander had told him, after it fitted into the palm of his hand like it should have always been there, realise the full potential and talent of the wizards that use them. Sometimes even before the wizards themselves.

 _And speaking of wood, did you carve that little wooden horse for Percy yourself? We’ve a bet going._  
_Talk more soon--we’re thinking of hooking ourselves into the Floo Network. France is too far to travel to London, but we can speak at least. Have Newt explain it to you._  
_Love,  
‘Missus’ Margaret_

* * *

Credence pulled the photograph out from under his pillow, watching the little men build a beautiful house he had seen only once before snuffing out the lights.

 _Credence,_  
_You did tell me to do what I wished with the land._  
_Merry Christmas  
Percival_

* * *

_Percival,_  
_I expect apples the size of my head.  
Credence_

 _Credence,_  
_Your letters used to be so kind and gentle. Working with wizards has changed you._  
_With great affection,  
Percival_

 _Percival,_  
_As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste._  
_Love,  
Credence_

* * *

_Missus Margaret,_  
_We don’t have a fireplace, but Mister Scamander’s shown me a spot I can speak to you. He brought back books on the subjects of which Élodie and myself spoke. If she likes, I can send them along._  
_Modesty is insistent on learning from the same books as I do, even though she can’t do any of the magic. Still, she’s just turned eleven, and it’s obvious I cannot send her to a wizarding school. At the start of the next season, I can enroll her in a muggle school, though I would like a magical tutor for her. But what if they are cruel to her? I can’t stop myself worrying about everything no matter which choice I make._  
_This may be out of line, but what would you do if it were Apolline?  
Credence Barebone_

* * *

Margaret walked down the hall, tying her robe, and stopped just before the open door to the living room where she could hear voices drifting out. On the other side, at the entrance to the kitchen, Élodie was listening with an expression of scandalized curiosity and, when she caught sight of Margaret, made a motion for her to stay still and be silent.

“How did she manage to get into _Lindcross?_ ” That was definitely Credence’s voice, Margaret pressed her back against the wall to listen more closely. He had only walked down to the pub on the corner to Firecall once, and only to see if it worked. He had promised to call for special occasions. This didn’t sound like a _special_ conversation; Credence sounded...well, he sounded _angry_.

“From what you read me, I’d say it was her very impressive application letter.” Percival sniffed.

Credence’s voice was flat now, near-toneless. “I guess I don’t need to know how Modesty _de la Granche_ knew to write to Lindcross in the first place?”

Élodie and Margaret exchanged looks across the door. Inside the room, Percival remained silent.

“It's so expensive,” Credence sighed. “I can’t let your family pay for that.”

“I made a promise to your sister,” Percival said in what he probably thought was a reasonable tone. Margaret thought he sounded snobby. “I did research. It has a business track.”

“She’s _eleven_.”

“Everyone could stand a business course or two.”

“Still the _whole_ term? She'll stick out like a sore thumb.”

Percival laughed. “I think Modesty will be able to handle herself.”

“She's going to be miserable there.” Credence seemed to be quietly speaking to himself now, rather than at Percival.

“You don’t know that.”

“It doesn’t matter whether I know it. You shouldn’t have--” He cut himself off with another sigh. “I have to go. Someone wants to use this.”

Margaret didn’t stick around for goodbyes, leaping across the open doorframe and pushing Élodie into the kitchen. She had a plate of cheese out and was nibbling on the edge of a cracker by the time Percival wandered into the room, sitting in the chair across from her. He looked absolutely poleaxed.

Margaret felt a hard kick against her shin under the table, and she lifted her eyes to meet Élodie’s wide, imploring ones. She at least allowed herself to finish her cracker before speaking, as Élodie was clearly more curious than concerned.

“How is Credence?” she tried delicately.

“I think,” Percival narrowed his eyes, seemingly confused, “we're fighting.”

“I knew he had it in him.” Élodie grinned, showing off her too-sharp teeth, and this time Margaret kicked her. She hissed, teeth growing just a tiny bit sharper under the kitchen lights. “What? It was bound to happen eventually.”

“I don't understand," Percival seemed to collect himself. " _What_ happened?”

“Well, whatever it is--”

“Humans _hate_ it when you don’t tell them things,” Élodie interrupted her, staring directly at Percival. “It’s like a little lie.”

Percival turned to Margaret, expression flat. “How much did you two hear?”

Margaret winced, shrugging helplessly. Percival slumped further into his chair, obviously frustrated.

“Élodie’s right, of course,” Margaret spoke slowly, all too aware of the great grin lighting up her wife’s face. “Generally, partners make decisions together...and you're hardly that.”

Percival ran a hand across his brow. “I have a letter to write.”

Margaret chuckled. “Oh yes, you do.”

* * *

_Credence,_  
_I never thought my fireplace would see so much action. Percy’s been in and out._  
_But you know that, don’t you? Or haven’t you two talked? He has apologized hasn’t he? If he hasn’t consider this my ‘sorry my brother is an oblivious [censored]._  
_Drat. Sorry, Élodie thought it’d be a laugh to order up one of those joke quills, along with one of every other product, from that new shop you mentioned. Zombos? She’s obsessed.  
Anyway, you were asking about magical paintings? I don’t know if it’s still there, but there used to be a shop in Diagon Alley--_

* * *

“So?” Modesty called from across the room. Credence looked around his small easel to see her perform a spin, her long pleated skirt following after.

“Very nice,” Credence nodded, standing to help her with the bow in her hair. Modesty swatted his hands away and pointed to the bed. Credence rolled his eyes but fetched his wand anyway. This spell he’d gotten quite a bit of practice at, and in Modesty’s defense, the bow looked much better when done by magic.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked when they reached their separation point at the end of their street. Idris, an older woman who had offered to walk Modesty to school on the days Credence trained with his tutor, was waiting for them. Idris also ran a small group called the Society for the Support of Squibs, and Credence had attached himself to it almost at once.

Modesty nodded, taking Idris by the crook of her arm and disappearing around the corner.

* * *

The pub always had a line for the Floo, but today wasn’t too bad. Generally, people ordered food or a drink while they waited, but Credence didn’t drink, and the food here was...hm. He made it to the front of the line quicker than most.

Percival began apologizing as soon as his face appeared.

“It’s okay,” Credence raised his hands to silence him. “Modesty should go to the best school. And…I should have been grateful.”

“No.” Percival held the space between his eyes, “I shouldn’t have meddled in your affairs.”

“Why not?” Credence tilted his head. It still seemed a bit odd to do so when it felt as though any minute his hair would catch on fire.

“It wasn’t my place,” Percival said. “We’re not…”

 _Say it,_ Credence thought, _after all of this, say we’re_ **_not_** _. I dare you._

“I should have spoken to you first.”

“You should have.” Credence let out a breath. “But you know that now. Besides it’s not like you secretly moved back to America.”

“That would be a fight, would it?”

“I _may_ even have to raise my voice.”

“Dear heavens,” the flat tone in Percival’s voice was at odds with the quirk of his lips.

“Margaret says you've been making trips, though? You didn't mention." But then he hadn't said much. He recalled the letter he received from Percival; an obviously rushed apology, asking Credence to call him. “Is it, ah…”

Percival nodded.

“Oh, good.” Credence grinned thinking about the Christmas present still tucked away under his pillow. He leaned farther into the Floo. "Did you hear I took up painting?"

* * *

_Missus Margaret,_  
_The wedding was beautiful. I didn’t know a cake could **be** that high, but I suppose if anyone could do it, it would be Mister Kowalski. I’ve attached pictures per your request. Thank you for the advice. **Missus** Kowalski loved the portrait.  
P.S.-Tell Élodie that Miss Goldstein and Mister Scamander were there together, of course. It’s shameful to gossip but how long, do the two of you think…?_

* * *

“Rotten,” Margaret jumped as a barrel of apples were practically thrown onto the table in front of her. “These ones too, you see?”

“I told you French soil was better for this.” Margaret pulled her gloves from the kitchen drawer and picked up an apple to examine it.

“And American would be even better, but the orchard is going to be in Scotland.” Percival stared at her, expression more helpless than she’d ever had the pleasure to witness. “Help me _in Scotland_.”

She stared, and the longer she stared, the more restless he became. She _knew_ offering to assist with this would be fun.

“Oh, fine.”

She followed him through the Floo and Side-Alonged twice, finding herself surrounded by flat shores of bright green that sloped upward to the north. She could just make out what was the start of a patch of apple saplings. They worked through the day, replanting seedlings and finding where Percival’s spells had backfired. He really _was_ terrible with plant spells. Why he was so intent on starting an orchard was beyond her reasoning.

That was Percy, though. Always did love a challenge.

“You won't see anything until late spring at the earliest.” She pulled off her gloves and ignored the ache in her back. “I'll come back to make sure you're not killing them.”

“Bring Élodie and Apolline.”

Margaret’s smile spread like syrup over her face as she pulled him into a hug, remembering a moment like this not less than a few months ago, in something like a dream. “I will.”

* * *

“ _Herbivicus,_ ”

Credence placed the tip of his wand at the bottom of the smallest sapling along the row of trees and watched, relieved at the sight of three new branches peeking out from within the folds of its leaves.

Further down, Percival flicked his own wand. While Credence couldn't help his reaction to the tensing and releasing of muscles that said jerking motion caused through Percival's bared forearms, he still flinched at the roughness of it.

Credence bent at the knees to watch the weeds at the edge of the orchard push themselves slowly back into a shriveling mass of black. “You've gotten a lot better.”

“I should hope so if I'm reaching for any productive sort of plant husbandry,” Percival said, and Credence shot him a look. “What?”

“Nothing I just--”

“This house is huge, Percy!” Modesty ignored the stairs of the porch in favor of jumping over its railing. “I've picked out which room is going to be mine.”

“Modesty,” Credence groaned.

“ _Your_ room?” Percival said at the same time. The derisive snort would have been more believable if he better managed to hide the grin on his face.

“You can't live here alone. That's _preposterous._ ”

Preposterous was one of several new words Modesty had learned at Lindcross, and she had made sure to find ample opportunity to employ it.

“Come on, Credence, I'll show you the room I picked out for you.” She grabbed his wrist and dragged him towards the house letting go when they reached the porch (and took the stairs this time, much to his relief).

“I miss the days she was too scared to call me anything but Mister Graves,” Percival said under his breath and then, still lower, “ _Percy, indeed.”_

* * *

Credence paced outside the closed doors that led to the Wizengamot. A man in very silly, plum robes (though Credence privately thought they were all silly--the witches and wizards he was acquainted with had presumably been magical all of their lives and saw no need for them) stopped short upon seeing him.

“Hello, I've seen you before,” he smiled, and though Credence had initially judged him as not much older than Percival, the lines that appeared around his eyes gave the impression of someone with with a great deal of experience.

He knew what the people at the Ministry thought of him, the quiet greeter attached to Newt’s side, slowly learning magic; must be deficient in some way. Every muscle in his back tensed just thinking of facing the highest ranking members here.

Still, he somehow held out his hand. “Credence Barebone. I work in the RCMC.”

“Of course, you're Newt’s boy! It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Albus.” The man took Credence’s hand with one firm shake before motioning towards the door, allowing Credence to surrender his wand first. “Larch wood,” he raised his eyebrows in obvious approval. “It has a tendency to instill confidence in the wizard who carries it,” he continued more quietly before they parted ways, Albus to his seat and Credence before the men and women high above him. “You'll be fine.”

In his mind, he pulled up an image of Percival. They would _listen_ to someone like him. Credence locked eyes with Albus, the only place his gaze fell comfortably, and spoke.

“Would someone mind explaining to me why there is so little communication between the letters department at Hogwarts and our Beings Division?”

This time when Albus grinned, Credence noticed his eyes seemed to shine.

* * *

_Clippy,_  
_I don't know when you'll get the paper, but I had to write to you as soon as I could. He's gone--back to Europe at our best guess. They're calling for my resignation._  
_England is safe, will be as long as Dumbledore stays there, but I can't say about France. None of us can guess. He came here after all.  
Picquery_

 _Sera,_  
_~~That's all right, we're not afraid to fight him.~~ Thank you, we’ll keep a weather eye.  
Clip_

* * *

"I have to admit I was surprised to receive your owl.”

“Well,” Margaret stared at Dumbledore over her scotch, “Newt seems to trust you. If what I have to say might be important, I suppose it's you I should tell it to.”

“Please,” he waved an arm, “proceed.”

“It was when I went to America to rescue my brother,” she said after a swallow that finished her drink, “See, there was this wand…”

* * *

Credence stared at the newspaper and tried to keep his hands from shaking.

“Is this the last of it?”

Credence looked up in time to see Percival make a more complex motion with his wand than he had yet to try. The entire bookshelf beside Modesty’s bed folded itself to fit inside her suitcase and Modesty, still on her bed and flipping idly through a new potions book from Queenie, barely batted an eyelash.

He never thought he'd see the day where magic became _commonplace_ to her, but here they were.

“You’re sure it’s all right?”

“I don’t see a problem with it.” Percival threw the suitcase onto the bed, and Modesty _did_ bat an eyelash then, shooting Percival an annoyed look. “Modesty already has a room.”

* * *

_Percival_  
_I appreciate the apples. Whoever said a fruit basket doesn't take the sting out of getting the boot was dead wrong._  
_Kidding. I'm a little between...everything. Jobs, cities, emotions. I keep waiting for someone to grab me by the shoulders and tell me we did something worth it._  
_Was it worth it?  
Picquery_

* * *

Percival woke up to the press of soft lips against his.

“You're awake early.” He pulled Credence to his chest and was cut-off from saying more by a loud banging downstairs.

“Your sister came in this morning.”

Percival sat up a little, and yes, that was unmistakably the sound of his three year old niece's laughter floating up the steps.

“I thought it’d take her at least a week to pack her house.” He fell back against the pillows to stare at the half-finished painting above the bed.

“You underestimated her.”

“I often do.”

Credence’s confidence had made leaps and bounds before he'd seen him again, after his time under Grindelwald's spell, and again in London. Every time he had the opportunity to grow on his own, he _did_ grow, and it was a sight to behold. Still...

“Do you think...if Modesty stays home, just for today, would that be irresponsible?”

A little over a year ago, Percival probably would have said yes in a heartbeat. Today, seeing Credence still fret over making the smallest mistake, he shrugged.

“A day off won't kill her. She's already ahead of half of her class.”

Credence tucked in closer, moving his hair behind his ear to little effect as it fell forward again almost immediately.

Percival thought of Seraphina’s letter awaiting his reply, and this, the image of his perfect day. Somewhere out there a mad, dark wizard stole his face and his life's work, and he was somehow happier now than he ever was then.

He didn't know if he'd write any of that to her. He'd never been good at writing letters to those he cared about.

But with Credence struggling against his hair in vain and the rest of his family waiting downstairs, at least this time he had an idea of where to start.

_Yes. It was worth it._

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr at [feoplepeel](http://feoplepeel.tumblr.com/)!


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